By the Grace of God
by Blurgle
Summary: Henry Tudor succeeds to the English throne in 1509 after discovering that he can never marry his betrothed, Catalina, whom he loves dearly - as a sister. Response to the Henry Never Married Katherine challenge by The Lady More.
1. Death Becomes Him

My first story here. I intend (by the grace of Fictionpress) to publish a new chapter at least once a month.

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April 21, 1509

Richmond Palace, Surrey

He left the room, pushing his way past the kneeling lords, ladies, prelates, and councillors, leaving them to their mourning. He would not mourn: he could not, now that he knew the truth.

 _Six years lived inside a lie._

When they'd told him the King, his father, had a few last words for his ears alone he'd expected one last morsel of advice, or perhaps an exhortation to look after his grandmother and younger sister – as if he would throw them out on the streets otherwise. The last thing he'd expected was a confession.

The old man hadn't even bothered to show remorse for what he'd done. Repentance, yes: he'd wanted the matter scraped off his soul. But even as he lay on his deathbed gasping for breath he'd refused to understand what his six-year-old crime would mean for his son or Catalina, had refused to acknowledge that it would change things - change everything.

He'd been drunk the day it happened, the bastard had said. Drunk, resentful that Catalina lived while Arthur and his beloved Elizabeth did not, furious at her cries of poverty – he'd lost control. It had been brutal, violent, punishing. She'd fought him tooth and claw to no avail; she'd been too small, too weak to withstand his lust. And in the same breath – the very same tortured breath in which he'd dismissed the greatest sin of his life as a 'regrettable act' – the thrice-damned son-of-a-bitch had ordered him to marry the girl. 'Get a dispensation', he said. 'The Holy Father will understand.'

 _Perhaps he would_ , he thought, _but I will not. And I will never humiliate Catalina by parading her shame throughout Europe. She is the greater victim here. I lost my bride the night you raped her; she lost everything._

He stopped in his tracks and snorted a bitter laugh. _As if I could have been a proper husband to her in the first place._

He'd spent years convincing himself it was possible. She was a friend and he'd loved her dearly, had loved her ever since she arrived from Spain to marry his brother. It wasn't until his voice deepened that he realized he could only ever love her as a sister, not as a knight should love his lady. He had pushed that filthy truth away: he'd pretended with his friends, had joined in their ribaldry, had said all the right words. As a natural player he could mimic Brandon or Compton effortlessly. But it was indeed just a play; he couldn't understand what they saw in women.

Or, better put, he could, just not in women.

He'd promised himself above all that he'd do right by Catalina: he'd force himself to do right by her if necessary. And if his father – his _predecessor_ – hadn't been the monster he'd surely been, perhaps he could have succeeded...perhaps.

But Catalina's plight meant that the sickness in his soul, the sickness years of prayer had never conquered, could very well end the Tudor dynasty. For how could he sire an heir on a woman he barely knew?

He laughed again, the sound ashes in his ears. _How you delude yourself, Your Majesty. How could you sire an heir on any woman when you wallow ears-deep in sin?_

He took a candlestick from one of the tables in the long gallery and entered his father's cabinet. It contained all the old man's treasures – the chairs he'd brought from France, his prie-dieu, his desk…oh how the old goat had loved that desk…

It had happened right here, right in front of the window.

He wondered if the courtiers had seen.

By then his father's grooms – no, _his_ grooms now – had arrived. One was building a fire in the fireplace while another was placing candles in the sconces. _Good men_ , he thought absentmindedly; _they don't ask questions, don't need to be told what to do, don't need me to even look at them, thank God._

Before they left he asked them from over his shoulder to remove Henry Lancaster's painting from the room. They obeyed immediately; he heard them unhooking it, turned to watch them carry it out – and caught sight of the back of a tall, lithe young man, blond tresses spiralling down over his shoulders, livery uniform tight across—

 _No._

He strode to the door and turned the key in the lock.

Fifteen minutes later every piece of furniture in the room was reduced to kindling.

He was Henry, by the Grace of God King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, eighth of that illustrious name.

He was a sodomite.

God help him.


	2. A Plain and Simple Priest

A little faster than a month, I'm afraid, but Wolsey was never much of a shrinking violet.

For those who asked: Anne will never be with Henry romantically. In this story she will actually _be_ the most happy.

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Richmond Palace

April 22, 1509

Thomas Wolsey sat at the far end of the table, listening as the young King made his first speech to the Lords of His Majesty's Council. But that was wrong, he realized with a start: the other men around the table were merely lords of the last king's council, here by sufferance to serve his successor.

The king is dead: break the rods of office, cast them into the grave. All has changed – all must change.

He'd been a chaplain of the royal household for two years, and over those two years he had learned everything he could about the late King and the men he chose to surround himself with. He'd never been the man's confessor but he still knew where all the bodies were buried. And he didn't mean the Princes in the Tower either…although there were times when he wondered if Queen Elizabeth had ever suspected the truth.

But at the moment he was thinking of the Dowager Princess of Wales.

There had always been whispers about the matter. Oh, not the attack itself, no one had known about that except Katherine herself – and the maid who'd cleaned up the blood. The rumours had centred on why she'd been so reluctant to come to court unless she was on her father's business, for (against all odds) she was not just Princess but Spanish ambassador. No one had known why she'd kept her distance: no one except young Father Wolsey, friend to all grooms and maids, who made it his business to know everything.

If the King's loving subjects had ever learned…but it seemed that one had.

Young King Henry didn't breathe a word of the betrayal, at least not in a way that a casual listener would recognize. After expressing his thanks at length to the members of his predecessor's council – not his father's, Wolsey noted – and decreeing that the formal announcement of the death would be made to the Knights of the Garter at their annual feast the next day, he declared his intentions regarding the Dowager Princess. She was 'his dear sister of the heart', a woman he both admired and cared for, but she was not a woman he could be persuaded to take as his lawful wife.

Wolsey knew the new king better than anyone in England – better than the boy knew himself, he'd wager. He'd confessed the prince for the last year, had absolved him time and again from the sin of lust. The boy was too wily to tell him exactly who he'd been lusting over but Wolsey was no fool; he'd seen his gaze trail where it might. They were always tall, blond, and slim – but of course their looks hadn't been the problem.

The revelation had come as a shock at first, but on reflection he considered it just another nugget of information to sock away. No priest – no educated priest, he corrected himself – could be ignorant of the fact that some men were left cold by a raised bosom. Oh, the Church might consider the act itself a form of heresy, but the predilection? Perhaps he should write Rome and ask Pope Julius's boyfriend to send him the current opinions on the matter.

But now he wondered if the young King was truly disappointed by his father's crime.

No, that was unfair. Henry did love the Dowager Princess as a sister, and the pain in his eyes was real even if he didn't acknowledge the true reason for it to his father's councillors. He was an honourable young man despite his lusts and he would never dream of humiliating the Princess by asking for dispensation, especially since the exact details of the affinity could never be kept private.

Henry of course put the matter differently in his speech. After lamenting the 'strange and entirely avoidable circumstances' that had forced the Princess to pawn parts of her dowry in order to buy food and clothing for her household, Henry announced that he intended to appoint councillors to audit her finances and make good the shortfall of the dowry which 'she should never have had need to touch.' He also intended to endow her with lands 'befitting her status as his brother's entirely beloved widow' and in addition pay out of his own privy purse any outstanding wages due to the members of her household.

The bean counters in Council squawked at that but Henry raised his hand, silencing them. His word was now law and they'd better get used to it.

He next advised them that he intended to give the Princess three options when he spoke with her at Durham House that afternoon. If she wished, she could return to Spain with her replenished dowry and the good wishes and love of the English people; he would send her home in his own ships, taking every precaution possible to ensure her safety. If she instead wished Henry to arrange a marriage for her with a foreign Prince, he would gladly do so at his expense. Lastly, if she preferred to remain in England, he would welcome her as his sister with open arms and settle on her three fine estates – not, he specified, including Durham House, which he considered to already be hers entirely – to cement her status as the first lady in the land above even the King's sister and grandmother, second only to whomever would become his lady Queen 'in due course'.

Wolsey rather suspected that she would take the third option – and that she would be first lady of the land for some time.

The King would have to marry at some point, of course, and to that purpose Wolsey had already accumulated quite the dossier of potential brides from across Europe. Not being a fool, he'd also kept a list of handsome young courtiers who might be willing to relieve the King of his pesky, long-lamented chastity, for (as contrary as it sounded) a bit of experience with men might make it easier for the King to bed his future wife. A man who remains untouched too long tends to mythologize sex, give it too much importance, see it as more than a mere scratching of an itch. As Henry's confessor and advisor it would be child's play for Wolsey to insinuate a willing young man into his privy chamber. A younger son with few prospects might jump at the chance to win his own title by serving his lord in such a manner... by stooping to conquer, as it were.

His gorge suddenly rose in his throat; the idea of having to commit such an act turned his stomach. But then again he didn't have to. Thomas Wolsey the butcher's whelp would rise by his wits alone; he'd leave it to lesser, better men to rise on their knees.

The King asked him to stay behind after the lords had left. "Thank you for sitting in on the meeting, Tom," he said. "What did you think of my speech?"

"Your Majesty could not have handled the situation better," he replied. "Not only have you preserved Her Highness's dignity as a member of your court, you've also protected her from the jeers of—"

But the King was suddenly glaring at him, his eyes narrowed. "You knew?"

He shook his head. "I did not, Majesty. I merely suspected. That is a different matter entirely with a King."

To his eternal relief Henry stopped, then ran a hand through his long auburn hair. "Yes," he murmured, "yes, I can see that. How did you…"

"The maid noticed the disturbance."

"The disturbance?"

He sucked in his lips. "The blood. There was quite a bit."

"More than if she'd just lost her…"

He nodded.

They stood together in grim silence until Henry finally spoke. "Which choice do you think she'll make?"

"Majesty, she would be a fool to return to Spain; her father would declare her mad just like her sister and steal the dowry for his own use. As for a foreign Prince, I'm sure she'd worry for her ladies."

"So you believe she'll stay in England?"

"I do. Will you permit her to marry if she does?"

He had apparently never considered the matter. "I suppose I would," he said after a moment's pause, "if the gentleman in question were acceptable. An earl, perhaps."

He spread out his hands. "Majesty, you can make any man an earl – a duke, for that matter."

"You're right. And I do want her to be happy. After what she's been through she deserves to be happy." He sighed. "Thank you, Wolsey. That reminds me: I'd like you to handle the audit. I suspect there's been a bit more than poverty gnawing at her dowry – although I don't intend to breathe a word of that to Catalina. I'd hate to raise her suspicions before the evidence is in."

"A wise choice, Majesty. One can never be certain in these cases."

He nodded. "For all I know it was someone in my father's employ."

Never in Wolsey's life had he heard the word 'father' spoken with such rancour.

"I would also like you to accept the position of King's Almoner," the King continued. "I know it's not much of a step up from confessor, but I want you on my Council and it's the best job I can give you without raising Archbishop Warham's hackles."

He bowed again. "I am your Majesty's humble servant."

Henry turned to leave, but stopped again in the doorway. "Did you ever mention your suspicions over my father to anyone?" he asked.

"No, Majesty. When one has suspicions about a king," and Wolsey met his gaze evenly, "one keeps them to oneself for the rest of his life…or one's own."

He nodded again, apparently unfazed that his confessor had recognized his nature. "If only I could marry her, Tom. She'd understand. She's the only one who would."

Wolsey wasn't so sure of that, but he merely bowed.

Without another word, Henry nodded at him and left to speak to Katherine.

As he returned to his duties he heard the bell chime for Tierce; he changed direction, finding himself in the chapel where the old King's body lay in time for prayers. But he was nearly the only one there: the prelates and priests who had wailed in grief over the old man's demise in Council were nowhere to be seen. Only the officiant and one other man – John More's son, if he recalled correctly – were there to join the Dowager Countess in her grief at her son's passing.

As he knelt, the thought flew through his mind that the greatest happiness Katherine might find in England would be to witness the old harridan groveling at her feet. He'd see to that. Henry's greatest happiness? He'd see to that too.


	3. A Princess of No Importance

This "once every month" thing might need to be amended. Now if only I could get Image Manager to work…

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Durham House, Westminster

April 22, 1509

She was in her apartments with Doña Lina that afternoon working on their mending when Doña Maria poked her head through the doorway. "Your Highness, the Prince of Wales has just ridden into the courtyard."

She almost gasped aloud. "Is he…how does he look?" she asked, rising to her feet. Whatever had possessed him—

"His Highness looks like he's had a long ride."

She heaved a sigh. "Then have the cook send up hot water for him; he'll want to wash first. We'll meet with him in the reception room. Can we feed him if he stays for supper?"

"If we stretch things. Praise God he's arrived on a feast day."

She smiled at the joke – although it wasn't much of one. For most Christians a feast day meant everyone could eat meat; at Durham House a feast day meant everyone could eat. She couldn't remember the last time she'd had meat.

It was indeed strange, she thought, as she and Lina followed Maria down the main staircase down to the ground floor. How had Henry convinced his father to let him visit? She was kept well at Durham House, if by 'well' one meant 'securely' or 'in ignorance'; she hadn't seen the Prince in three years, hadn't received a letter from him in two, hadn't been allowed to speak with anyone but the Council on those increasingly rare occasions her presence was needed at court on her father's business. She couldn't even rely on gossip, as her personal servants had been taken away after the – after the incident. Her remaining ladies-in-waiting, all three of them, were kept as straitly as she was, and her priest-confessor was so old and doddering he could barely get through Mass. The cook and kitchenmaids did their best with what rations they received but she and her ladies had been forbidden to speak to them. The only consolation was that the house's owner, His Grace of Durham, had been tasked with supplying them with firewood and ale, and had proved himself a very generous man…unlike the King.

The guards, of course, ate remarkably well.

They hadn't needed to use the reception room in years but still she kept it clean with her own hands, as she was not so proud as to refuse to mop a floor or beat the rushes when there was no one else to do it. She had decided long ago that she would never let herself feel shame in physical labour; she'd been shamed enough in life already.

"I'm not wearing a hood," she said, turning to Lina with a frown. "Do I have time – oh, Merciful God: where's Juan?"

Lina patted her shoulder soothingly. "Don't worry, Highness; he's upstairs with—"

Just then Maria ushered Henry into the reception room. He'd grown so tall! "Your Highness," she said, sweeping him a curtsey, "how good it is to see you after all this time. I'm glad you were permitted to…"

Her voice trailed off as their eyes met. He was giving her the strangest look...

"Your Highness," he began with a courtly bow. "Dearest sister. If I might have a moment of your time?" His gaze flickered to Maria's face. "I would ask to see you alone…"

Maria and Lina stepped back, but he raised a hand and shook his head at them.

"…but in this case I think it better that your ladies remain, at least for now. I…Cata, I have news. You must prepare yourself."

Her stomach dropped. "Is…is everything all right?" Her father…her sister…

"Everything is all right, Cata," he said, a grin spreading across his face. "In fact, everything is marvellous. My father is dead. He can never hurt you again."

"He's…" The room suddenly swam; her only thought as she felt her legs drop out from under her was that Spanish princesses were not supposed to…

"Alteza…Catalina."

…faint.

Her eyes fluttered open as the acrid odour of vinegar shocked her awake. "Who…" she groaned, before she recognized the voice and the memory came flooding back.

 _…he's dead he's dead he's dead i'm free..._

 _Juan!_

She tried to jump back to her feet – a princess must not lie down when a king stood – but the dizziness stopped her and soft hands held her where she was. "Your Majesty, I—"

His voice was low and for her ears alone. "Doña Maria is here with us. There's nothing to worry about. You're on the chaise. You're safe. I give you my word, Cata: no harm will come to you now."

A few minutes passed before the world stopped spinning and she was able to push herself up into a sitting position. "Forgive me, Majesty," she began, but he shook his head.

"Henry in private, please," he said gently as he sat beside her. "Your ladies have already chastised me, and rightly so. I should have been more careful." He clasped her wrist. "You're so thin; have you not been eating?"

She felt her face grow warm. "Not every day…"

He swore under his breath, although he didn't seem surprised. "That ends now. Before I arrived here I stopped at Westminster and asked them to send over everything they had in the pantry. Meat, bread, eggs, butter, wine…" He looked up at Maria. "If Her Highness requires anything else, Doña Maria, please send word to Brian Tuke at the palace and it will be delivered immediately. If she wants ingots of gold she'll have them within the hour."

She curtseyed to him. "Your Majesty is too kind."

But he waved her thanks away. "It's still less than she deserves – than all of you deserve. I wonder if I could have a few moments alone with your mistress; we have matters to discuss. But please wait outside the door in case she has need of you."

"Yes, Majesty."

Dread pooled in her belly as Maria left them. "Henry, I regret deeply that I must…"

But of course he already knew. He had to know. He would never have said what he did if he hadn't.

His face was grim. "The bastard told me what he did, Cata. He told me on his deathbed. I am so sorry. I wish I could go back and stop him, but all I can do now is protect you."

"Protect me how?" she cried, her voice breaking into hysteria. "I'm befilthed, I'm a whore, I'm damaged. Even if you did get a dispensation…"

But he shook his head. "No, Cata. You are no more a whore than the abbess of St. Helen's. You know you didn't choose to…"

But she couldn't stop herself. Six years of pain, six years of grief she'd kept from everyone, even herself, exploded as she broke into heaving, incoherent sobs, flinging herself into the arms of the only man she could trust as her heart threatened to burst out of her chest.

"It's all right, Cata…hush…"

Spanish princesses, they say, do not cry; but even a Spanish princess can only withstand so much. And as he rocked her she knew he would keep her secret, as she would always keep his.

She finally broke away from him once she'd regained her breath. "Majesty…Henry, I – I'm sorry, I didn't mean…"

"Don't apologize."

"But I still can't marry you."

"I know."

She looked up at him through her tears. How much did he—

"I'd never be so cruel as to expose you to the ridicule of Christendom by asking for a dispensation under the circumstances," he continued. "I care too much about your honour to…"

But she interrupted him. "That's not what I mean," she choked out, striving desperately to regain her self-control. "I mean that I truly have no honour and I truly am a whore." She turned to the door and raised her voice. "Maria?"

The door opened. "Highness?"

"Where is the boy?"

Her lips thinned. "With Doña Esmeralda, Highness. I think they're playing in the attic."

"Bring him here, please."

Maria clearly didn't like the idea but she obeyed, closing the door behind her.

She turned back to Henry, expecting him to be disgusted – after all, it was her greatest shame, one she could not begin to explain – but all she could see on his face was compassion. He didn't hate her. He didn't even seem shocked.

He took her hands in his. "I wondered…before I left Richmond I spoke to Dr. de Victoria."

"My old physician." She had not seen him in six years. He couldn't know—

"He's my physician now. I didn't mention you; I posed it as a hypothetical, but if he figures it out he'll never say a word. I'd thought it wasn't possible but he set me right." He let go of her hands, reached up to cup her chin, but she would not, could not meet his gaze. "He told me that in the war…in the Reconquista…there were many good Christian women, women that had been caught in sieges or in Boabdil's camp, who…"

"Who bore their rapists' children," she said, placing her cards face-up on the table at last. "I know the old wives' tale is a lie; how could I not? But I fear no one would believe me."

"I would," he murmured, "and I do. This was his fault alone, and every shred of sin connected to his heinous actions weighs on his soul alone. Not yours, not…"

"Juan's."

He smiled. "After your brother?"

"I…we've raised him as Doña Lina's son. She gave birth to a boy named Juan only a few weeks before I did. He died of the plague along with his father, and we thought it safest..."

Which it had been. Too many people still believed that a woman could only conceive if she completed the act, which would only happen if she'd welcomed the man. She had believed it herself until she'd been proved wrong by her own faithless body.

No: she would always scorn the attack but never the result. If any good had come out of this utter disaster, it was in the person of the sweet boy she was careful to call her nephew.

Henry sighed deeply. "I take it you didn't tell the King?"

"Whether he found out another way I don't know, but I've never said a word. I would have told you, but by the time I saw you after…"

"After you had the fever?"

She smiled sadly. "Yes, the 'fever' that kept me away from court for four months. By the time I saw you afterwards Doña Lina had claimed him, and I was worried we'd be overheard if I said anything. I'm sorry."

"I was only a boy, Cata. You were right not to tell me if—"

Just then the door flew open. "Tía Cata!" the boy chirped as he ran into her arms, his ragged shirt fluttering around him. "Doña Maria said…" but then he caught sight of the strange man sitting with her and drew closer to her.

"Don't be afraid," she said, wrapping an arm around his thin shoulders. "Here is a brave and valiant knight come to save us."

She looked over at Henry but his eyes were wide and fixed on Juan's face, and she worried…but no: after just a moment's pause he smiled. "Her Highness speaks true, as a noble lady should. I'm Sir Henry. What's your name?"

"Don Juan de Montoya, sir," he said, making a little bow.

"I'm honoured to meet you, Don Juan. Have you been looking after your mother and aunts?"

The boy's chest puffed out; he was so brave. "I would give my life in their defence, Sir Henry. Are you really here to save us?"

"I most certainly am." He reached over and ruffled the boy's thick brown hair. "All shall be well, Don Juan; I give you my word of honour."

"Why don't you run back to Tía Esmeralda, Juanito, and ask her to dress you in your best shirt?" she said, smoothing his hair down. "I have it on excellent authority that supper tonight will be special."

"All right, Tía Cata." He bowed to Henry again. "Good day, Sir Henry."

After he had gone, Henry ran a hand over his face; she could tell he was trying to control his emotions. "He's the picture of my grandmother."

"Henry," she said – but she wasn't sure how to put the question that burned in her heart. What would happen to them? Would he leave them here, would he send them away…

But it seemed he was as good at reading her face as he'd ever been. "I had thought," he started awkwardly, his eyes lowered, "I had thought to give you three choices."

"Three…"

He took her hands again and, as he told her about the tentative ideas he'd come up with, she felt the talons of fear that had pierced her heart for years finally loosen their grip, finally fall away. He would give her choices, estates, comfort…her life. Her son.

She would never return home, she knew that. Her father would have her locked away in a convent the moment her feet touched Spanish soil and she would never see Juan again. Marriage to a foreign prince was just as perilous. She had already declared her union with Arthur to have never been consummated, so how could she explain away her broken maidenhead? And, if she were to be brutally honest with herself, the thought of a man's touch still turned her stomach.

No, she decided: she would remain in England, at Henry's side – as his sister.

"I'd ask you to remain at court until I marry,' he said once she's told him of her choice. "Once I do, you can stay at court if you wish or you can retire to your estates…I had wondered if you'd choose to take the veil, but I suppose you wouldn't want to be parted from your little Don Juan."

She laughed. "Let's pray he never becomes a Don Juan in real life."

"I don't know," he said, his voice hollow. "Maybe it would be better for him if he did."

She squeezed his hand in sympathy. Had it never happened she would have married him and they would have found a way to make it work despite it all. She didn't know if a man of his – peculiar nature, she supposed was as good a way to put it as any – could sire healthy sons; her brother had only been able to sire a daughter before his early death, and the babe had been stillborn. But she had been willing to try.

"What will you do?" she asked.

"Stall," he said, his face a granite slab. "Delay them. Pray I wake up one day cleansed of my sin." He laughed mirthlessly. "Pray I find another princess whose brother was a sinner like me, who would understand…"

"Henry."

He shrugged. "It'll have to go through my sister Mary, I suppose; the realm can't go to the Scots. I'll ask Parliament to pass an act of succession once it convenes barring Margaret and her issue from inheriting. When Mary's older – when it's safe for her to bear children – I'll find her a younger son or maybe an English lord."

"You won't marry her to Archduke Charles then?"

"Not if there's a chance she could succeed…although I don't know if the people would accept a queen regnant." He looked up at her. "Maybe your mother's example will convince them."

They sat in silence for a moment. "Henry," she finally asked, "Does anyone else know?"

"You're the only one I've ever had the guts to tell," he admitted. "My confessor suspects, I'm sure; he's implied as much. Tom Wolsey's probably the wisest and most capable man I know, and the most cynical. I've asked him to look into your finances – where your dowry's gone, whether your servants have been paid…"

"Which dowry would that be? Which servants?" She held out her red, calloused, work-worn hands to him, palms up. "I scrub floors, I mend, I dust, I launder linens. I do not peel vegetables only because His Grace of Durham pays the cook!"

He'd always had a temper, she knew. Not the fearsome Tudor temper his father had, the temper that had destroyed her life; no, his was the York temper of his grandfather Edward, the temper that, once raised, would simmer until he was free to release it safely. He would never take his anger out on her, but take it out he would – and from the look in his eyes she knew that some innocent chair would find itself smashed to splinters before the day grew much older.

He suddenly knelt at her feet. "I give you my word," he said, "as a knight and a king, that you will never need to sully your hands again. You are the Dowager Princess of Wales and an Infanta of Spain; this should never have happened. None of this," and he waved his hands, "should have happened. You were not born for it. I'll send word to Westminster and have them send over a team of servants." He paused. "Unless you'd like to move to the palace instead."

She looked down at her gown, which had been cobbled together from half a dozen worn-out pieces. "I-I still have one outfit suitable for court. If you are willing to wait I will change. I…there are so many evil memories here that I'd be happy if I never saw this house again. His Grace is welcome to it."

"Then I'll return to Westminster and come back for the five of you in, say, an hour? That should give you time to..." He stopped, stared at her, frowned – but then he gave her a sheepish grin. "I'd forgotten that Durham House is an episcopal palace," he said. "I promised the Council I'd give it to you. No wonder Tom Ruthall was livid."

She laughed.

They rose to their feet, but she stopped him just before they reached the door. "There is one thing," she said. "Juan…if anyone asks, Doña Lina will say that she had a…a liaison with your father, if it would make things easier for you, or for him."

But he shook his head. "I can't think anyone else will notice the resemblance between a five-year-old boy and my grandmother. I can't see how it would matter."

But she could. Some day, if the nobles had to choose between Mary and Juan, some might consider a bastard boy sired on a princess a better bet than a legitimate girl – which would be disastrous for all of them, especially Juan. Better they think his mother is the loose-legged widow of a Castilian _hidalgo_.

 _Forgive me, Lina._

Spring had arrived, she thought as they stepped out of the entryway into the courtyard; the air was perfumed with blossoms, birdsong, and hope. "Until you return, Majesty."

"I'll be back in an hour," he reminded her, "with horses. Do you know if…if Doña Lina's boy rides?"

She blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall; he'd hardly ever been outdoors. "No, Majesty."

"Then he'll ride with me – if you think his mother would approve?"

"I'm certain she would."

"Then I bid you farewell, Highness. Tell her not to worry; I'll keep him safe."

 _If only you can_ , she thought as she curtseyed again. _If only you can_.

* * *

Incidentally, the real Juan de Montoya (who was of course not Katherine's son but the son of her Mother of the Maids, Catalina de Montoya – "Doña Lina" here) survived infancy to eventually become principal secretary to Eustache Chapuys, about whom more anon. Although we will hear from a certain exceptionally smug Knight of the Bath first…


	4. Rosa Sine Spina

City of London

June 23, 1509

The wind whipped over Tom Boleyn's head and through Cornhill, rustling the tapestries hung along the procession route by mercers eager to have their loyalty known to their new King – or perhaps simply eager to have something at long last worth celebrating. His scarlet cape suddenly billowed out, revealing to the cheering crowds the royal blue gown he wore as a newly dubbed Knight of the Bath.

They weren't cheering for him, of course, but he could pretend.

He and the other new knights were waiting for the Worshipful Company of Mercers' interminable pageant to finish behind them. They led the procession, all riding identical white destriers; all, that is, but the youngest knight, who was instead carried with much pomp by the Earl of Surrey on a white mare. High above them banners displaying the new King's device – a Tudor rose _en soleil,_ crowned and bearing the motto _Rosa sine spina_ – caught the rays of the afternoon sun.

 _Rosa sine spina_ , Tom thought: a rose without a thorn – or, if one preferred, a rose without a spine.

That had been his father-in-law Norfolk's fear, at least at first. Young King Henry had from all accounts been kept as strictly as a nun during his father's life, barely allowed to ride a horse, let alone tilt or engage in swordplay; rumour had it the old man had gone so far as to set guards on him, not leaving him a moment's privacy even in the jakes. One account had him sleeping on a pallet at his father's feet! Worse, the boy had never been taught how to govern, never been given training in the arts of diplomacy, governance, or war. It had been a strange lapse on the part of a monarch as wily and careful as Henry the Seventh and had raised fears among the Council that the new king would be weak and unwise – fears that had seemed to come to fruition only hours after his accession.

Most of the lords had expected young Henry to marry Katherine of Aragon, the Spanish princess who had briefly been his brother Arthur's wife seven years ago. Henry however had other plans, declaring he would never marry the princess he considered his 'dearest sister' while at the same time stating his intentions to make her the wealthiest lady in the land. The Councillors had been worried that Henry would rule with his heart instead of his head, bankrupting the realm in his need to portray himself as the 'gentil parfit knight' of legend despite his lack of true knightly accomplishments. It was only after the details of Katherine's mistreatment by his father had come to light that the Council realized their young king was far from the fool they'd feared he was. Starved, exposed to plague and the sweat, forced to scrub floors until her fingers blistered, Princess Katherine had emerged from her prison at Durham House so thin and weak that the doctors doubted she could ever birth a healthy son. Worse, one of her Spanish ladies had reportedly been forced to barter her body to the King for food to keep the Princess alive. Tom wouldn't have dreamed his late master would ever commit such a despicably unchivalrous act as to make a gentleman's widow his reluctant whore, but the evidence – in the person of the scrawny five-year-old on Surrey's lap, staring at the world through Margaret Beaufort's eyes set over high Basque cheekbones – said otherwise.

He glanced behind him; the mercers were, praise God, finally winding down and the Constable was giving the signal for them to move on. His eyes alighted on King Henry, sitting tall on a white charger behind the Constable. Eighteen years old tomorrow, six and a half feet of elbows, knees, and red hair, and the very picture of Elizabeth Woodville according to Tom's Grandfather Ormonde, Henry the Eighth didn't look like a king as much as he did a gangly apprentice playing David in a mystery play. Yet he had been the one to send his father's henchmen to the Tower without a moment's hesitation despite their wives' pitiful pleas for mercy – and that was before they'd discovered half the Princess's dowry in Richard Empson's strong room and the other half in Edmund Dudley's cellar.

The executions were set for July.

That wasn't the only sign King Henry would prove his critics wrong. He was intelligent and devout and (according to Tom More) had a head for leadership that only required the slightest fine tuning. He would never be the warrior or athlete his grandfather King Edward had been – his eyesight was too poor for the archery butts and his shoulders too narrow for tennis – but he was far from a coward, taking to jousting with a vengeance if not with any natural ability. But what he lacked in talent or experience he more than made up for in enthusiasm…and not just in the tiltyard, as rumour had it. Whispers spread of women climbing their way up the back stairs and into His Majesty's private chambers every night, women who were always long gone by the time Will Compton, his Groom of the Stool, awakened him. No one minded that, of course; the boy had likely been green as grass at his accession, and Tom could think of no better place for a lusty young king to spend his nights than between the thighs of a bosomy, loose-legged blonde.

The procession had by then reached Cheapside, where ahead of him lay Boleyn House, his Grandfather Boleyn's London home. He'd never known Sir Geoffrey – he'd been born long after the old man's death – but he'd always admired his ambition. Country shearman at twelve, hatter at twenty, mercer at forty, knight, Lord Mayor, and the wealthiest merchant in London at his death: how proud he would be to see his grandson at the head of a coronation procession.

 _And this is only the beginning, Grandfather; just watch me._

The Constable gave the sign again and they reined in their horses as the King paused to watch the Stationers' pageant. Tom caught his wife's eye from where she stood in the window of Boleyn House and winked; Elizabeth beamed at him, as proud as she'd ever been. She had a lot to be proud of, for not only had her husband been knighted, her father had finally been restored as Duke of Norfolk and her brother now bore the courtesy title of Earl of Surrey. It was he who carried the boy who had been so dishonourably sired, the former Don Juan de Montoya – now John Fitzroy, Earl of Richmond, Knight of the Bath. For all his faults Surrey was a natural with children; the boy had crawled into his lap without a qualm and hadn't squirmed once since. Of course there was a lot for him to take in, but it was clear he already possessed in spades the pride and dignity of his noble Spanish ancestors.

Tom glanced over at Boleyn House again, this time catching his younger daughter's eye. Anne was eight years old and already a dark beauty like his mother, but for better or worse she'd also inherited full shares of both the Howard pride and the Boleyn intelligence. It was a dangerous combination, and he could only hope that a few years at the court of the Duchess of Savoy would scrape off her sharp edges and mould her into the perfect lady.

Or perhaps, he thought with another glance at the boy sitting tall and proud in Surrey's lap, the perfect countess.

A slow smile spread across his face.

The pageant moved on.

* * *

For those wondering, Thomas Boleyn was indeed made Knight of the Bath before Henry and Katherine's coronation in real life, and was indeed at the head of the procession that took them from the Tower to Westminster Palace the night before their coronation. And the motto _Rosa sine spina_ (in its absurd entirety _Henricus VIII, Rutilans rosa sine spina_ , or 'Henry VIII, a dazzling rose without a thorn') was indeed one of Henry's real-life mottos, first used in 1526.

Henry's device here is based on one of Elizabeth I's devices superimposed on the Yorkist Sun in Splendour.


	5. El Excelentisimo Señor

Audience Chamber, Palace of Placentia  
July 27, 1509

His courtiers wore deepest black, his visitors highest dudgeon.

To his left stood Christopher Bainbridge, Archbishop of York, the senior prelate at court since Warham of Canterbury had left for Rome.

To his right, seated in deference to her rank and delicate health, was Katherine, Dowager Princess of Wales.

Before him was the proudest man he'd ever had the misfortune to meet: Don Fadrique Álvarez de Toledo y Enríquez de Quiñones, Duke of Alba, Marquess of Corea, lord of a thousand other honours – all of which (Henry rather suspected) he could rattle off without a moment's hesitation. Of course the hard-bitten old duke had much to be proud of; an accomplished general who'd bloodied his sword at Málaga and Grenada before conquering Roussillon for the Catholic Monarchs, Alba was also a crafty politician with an incisive mind that had served him well in the field and at King Ferdinand's court.

It wasn't serving him nearly as well here.

"But-but your Majesty!" he was sputtering. "For the Infanta to remain in England—"

"You mean the Princess."

"—it is an insult not to be borne! My master's honour demands that the Infanta—"

He drew in his lips. "The Princess."

The duke's face flushed. "Whatever you call her, she is my master's lawful daughter and an heiress to the throne of Aragon! She should be returned to the arms of her loving family, not be left stranded in the bitter, savage wilds of England!"

From his right side he thought he heard a faint snort.

 _So that's the carrot,_ he thought. _The throne of Aragon…you'll have to do better than that mirage, Excelentisimo Señor._

Bainbridge spoke up. "If I may, Majesty?"

"Certainly, Your Grace."

The archbishop took a tightly folded document from his clerk, opening it and glancing at Alba with cold eyes over the top of the creased parchment. "The Treaty of Toledo, a copy of which I have here, does not address the matter, Excellency. It is true that the document contemplates the marriage of His Majesty the King with the Dowager Princess, but the marriage _per verba de prœsenti_ was repudiated by His Majesty upon his reaching his majority, as was his right under canon law."

"I do not contest that," Alba replied. "I speak not of the marriage but of the natural right of the Princess to return to the land of her forefathers."

Bainbridge frowned back down at the parchment. "But there is no provision in the treaty to return the Dowager Princess to Spain," he said, his gaze sliding back to Alba, "whether by force or otherwise."

"Force? Who here has spoken of force?" the duke countered, his eyes narrowing in outrage. "I am a man of honour, Your Grace. Forcing an infanta – it is not to be imagined!"

 _Which is the entire point of this theatre_ , Henry thought, _although you'll never know it._

To his right Catalina had become very still; he prayed it wasn't another of her spells.

"Peace, Don Fadrique," he said, holding up a hand. "His Grace of York was only speaking of the conditions of the treaty; he meant no insult against your august person. I do however understand why you leapt to that conclusion, as we have not greeted you with the pomp and pageantry to which a man of your noble and ancient blood is entitled. Unfortunately, under the circumstances…"

"Your Majesty, our reception has been as gracious as we could ask for," the Duke said with a dip of his head. "I only wish that I and my colleagues had known of your lady grandmother's death before our arrival. Don Diego," and he nodded at the Marquis of Cañete, "was well acquainted with The Dowager Countess. But I can only wonder what the noble lady could have thought of this insult to the dignity of the Spanish crowns, especially since she was such a good friend to my master and his late wife Queen Isabella."

"You will be pleased to learn that she approved of my decision," he replied with a smile. "She loved the Princess as a daughter and was pleased to see her well settled in her adopted homeland where she could be cared for with all necessary diligence."

The Duke's magnificent brow knit. "And you believe King Ferdinand would not do so? If that is the case I beg leave to disillusion Your Majesty, as my master has prepared for his beloved daughter a splendid estate where she may recover from the insults offered to her – insults, I might add, she would never have faced had she not come to this benighted realm."

Henry had to concede that point.

Catalina's voice was low and clear. "Would you be so kind as to describe this fine estate, Excellency?"

The duke turned to her, a grin spreading across his face; he clearly thought he was on the cusp of winning at least one battle. "I have not seen it personally, Alteza, but my lady wife has told me of its stately grace and its complete suitability for an _infanta de sangre_. The Duchess was especially taken by the gardens filled with fragrant blossoms and the orchards of almond and lemon trees. And your rooms! They rival the Alhambra in beauty and comfort."

She nodded, apparently impressed. "It seems a paradise on Earth, Don Fadrique, but I do have one question."

"Yes, Alteza?"

She fixed him with a stare. "Are the orchards located within the convent walls or outside?"

The blood drained from his face.

Henry rose to his feet, clamping down fiercely on the laughter that threatened to bubble up. "Perhaps we could discuss the matter further in private, Excellency," he said, before turning to Catalina. "Does Your Highness wish to accompany us, or do you feel the need to retire?"

She gave him a grateful smile. "I believe Dr. de Victoria would have me rest, Majesty."

"Then you must follow his orders." He beckoned to two ladies waiting by the door. "Doña Maria, Lady Shrewsbury? If you would assist the Dowager Princess."

He showed the Duke to his private office in the privy apartments with a quick nod to Ned Bayne, the groom at the door. Not a word or a look passed between the two of them but he could still feel the heat of the other man's body – his lithe, seductive body – as he passed by him.

Henry Tudor was smarter than most men suspected at first glance – smarter than most men, for that matter. He knew Wolsey had planted the delectable Ned in his bedchamber for his own reasons but he wasn't about to complain. Kings weren't supposed to sleep alone; it was the usual practice for an armed groom to sleep on a pallet beside his master's bed in case an assassin (or an idiot) made it into the room. And if the groom in question slipped between his own sheets only an hour or so before dawn…it was nobody's business but theirs.

The court, to his great relief, was convinced his nights were dedicated to swiving busty wenches. Wolsey's remarkably efficient rumourmongers had spread the story as quickly as word could fly, but in truth it hadn't been a difficult sell; tales of his supposed prowess with the ladies had been circulating almost since his father gasped his last breath. Some even had him bedding two women at the same time! He wasn't quite sure if that was even possible but he didn't contradict the rumour; it was better for everyone involved if his people were secure in a comforting, if somewhat perplexing, lie.

He dismissed the grooms with a nod – his desire for Ned hadn't blinded him to the fact that he was Wolsey's spy – and turned back to Alba. "Wine, Excellency?" he asked, gesturing to the table. "I believe we have a great deal to discuss."

"Thank you, Your Majesty; we certainly do."

Once they'd served themselves, Henry began again, this time in Spanish. "I hadn't expected your master to send a delegation so quickly, although I'm glad he did. Certainly my predecessor did everything he could to make the Princess's position as ambassador as difficult as possible. I'm told he read your master's letters to her – and hers to him – and censored them."

Alba nodded. "His Majesty was of course aware of the issue but he had bigger fish to fry – or at least he believed he did. I will not lie to you; the Princess's plight has never lain heavily on his heart." He held out his hands. "As a father myself I cannot understand his attitude."

"Which is evidence of Your Excellency's own honourable nature. Were you acquainted with Her Highness in Spain?"

"Not personally, but my Duchess was her lady governess for two years; she's been worried sick over her plight. If I might ask, Majesty: how is she, truly?"

He heaved a sigh. "Dr. de Victoria used the phrase 'a close-run thing' when he discussed it with me. He doesn't believe she would had survived if my father had lingered even a month longer."

Alba crossed himself. "Then the Lord is good, Majesty; He has saved her, I know it. Does anyone know why the old king abused her so vilely?"

He chose his words carefully. "I believe he resented the fact that she lived while my lady mother did not. As for why he imprisoned her…I suspect he was trying to bring about her death without having to accept overt responsibility for it. Durham House is exposed to many miasmas, and in fact she came close to succumbing to a slow fever five years ago. I don't know if you've heard about the theft of her dowry?"

"By Señors Dudley and Empson? Father de Puebla said he spotted their heads atop London Bridge yesterday."

"He very well could have. We recovered most of the dowry from their safe rooms, and I'm more than willing to make up the remainder – from their estates, naturally." He snorted; he could live for a year on what Dudley alone had embezzled from the Treasury. "I presume that was your master's most pressing concern?"

At that the duke laughed out loud. "Your Majesty knows him well. I take it you have no objections to returning the dowry?"

"As a show of good will, none whatsoever. You were right; if she hadn't come to England none of this would have happened, and for that reason I feel I should return what she brought with her." He put down his glass. "As for her status, allow me to be blunt, Excellency. Dr. de Victoria believes the Princess has been rendered barren by the deprivations she's suffered. I haven't asked her ladies – I didn't think it fit – but I understand her courses have yet to return, and may never do so."

"Pity," he mused. "She's still a lovely girl, and you need a son more than most kings. Yet you announced your decision not to marry her before you knew of her condition. Why?"

He regarded Alba coolly. "Catalina arrived in England when I was a mere boy. In my heart and mind she is my sister. By any chance do you have sisters of your own?"

"I had three, Majesty. Or at least—" He suddenly grew silent, his lip curling in disgust. "I suddenly appreciate your reticence. Which brings me to my master's next point: a new bride for Your Majesty must naturally be found, and he has a number of nieces, granddaughters, and cousins he believes might be of interest to you."

He listened with one ear as the duke waxed eloquently over the dozen or more theoretically nubile ladies his master and Emperor Maximilian were willing to offer as potential wife and Queen to the young English king. It was a waste of time, of course, for even if he had a burning desire to marry he couldn't accept one of Catalina's close relatives; he would still need to disclose the nature of their bond of affinity to Rome, where it would echo in the streets for decades.

He did however pretend to be interested in Ferdinand's plans. After all, the more candidates he had on his plate, the longer he could stall the process.

Once they'd finalized plans to exchange portraits with the various parties he assumed the duke would have nothing more to discuss, but he was mistaken. "There is one last thing, Your Majesty," Alba said. "I'm afraid it's a…delicate matter."

"Please feel free to speak of it; after all, if your master has charged you with it…"

But he shook his head. "This does not concern King Ferdinand. I speak of Señora de Montoya's boy. We've heard so many different stories in Spain that her brother the Count of Oñati has asked me to discover the truth."

He ran his hand through his hair. "I'm afraid it's a long story."

As he explained what had happened – or, at least, what he and Catalina wanted the world to think had happened – Alba's expression changed from disgust to amazement and back again. "Such base infamy in a king I would never have thought possible," he growled once Henry had finished. "Doña Lina might have played the whore but at least it was for the best possible motive; I would gladly forgive my own daughter such a lapse. She had to…offer herself…in trade for food and medicines?"

"I'm afraid so. Fortunately for all concerned she was able to prevent the King from discovering her condition, but even if he'd learned of it she could have claimed the child was her late husband's – at least until the boy began to grow into his looks. There's no doubt he's the old king's son."

The duke barked a mirthless laugh. "I take it your father wouldn't have made the boy an earl?"

"An angel, more likely," he admitted. "But His Lordship is my ward now and no matter what happens he'll remain here in England with me. If Doña Lina's brother wishes her to return to Spain I regret she'll have to leave him behind."

"The Count might order her home under the circumstances, Majesty. I don't know if I would do the same, but it might be for the best if mother and son were separated."

He wasn't sure if he agreed with that sentiment.

Once the duke had made his final bow and left, Henry crossed to the window and looked out over the knot garden to find Juan busy building a fort in the middle of a bed of lavender. The gardeners would soon be grey as coots, he thought – if they didn't pull all their hair out first.

He suddenly laughed. They'd been concerned that Juan would find the earldom and change of name confusing, but what had really thrown him were the everyday things most children take for granted. He'd never seen oysters or roast beef before; he'd been flabbergasted to learn that bread came in loaves and not stale crusts. And the gardens…Henry wondered if Cabot had felt as much wonder upon first sight of the New Found Land as his brother could in an everyday flowerbed.

His brother.

He had a brother.

He stepped away from the window, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill down his face.

* * *

Today's fun fact: in real life King Henry sent Christopher Bainbridge to Rome in 1509 as ambassador to Pope Julius. The Archbishop was eventually poisoned by his own chaplain, likely at the instigation of the Bishop of Worcester. Ah, the good old days.


	6. Coup de Foudre

Please note that there is one instance of strong language in this section. The old viscount simply isn't one to mince his words.

* * *

Palace of Placentia  
October 14, 1509

They reined in their horses as the trail began its slow descent from the Kentish plateau. Below them, nestled along the meandering Thames, lay a stately palace framed by linden and oak trees ablaze in brilliant reds and golds, its dozens of glass windows reflecting the low noonday sun.

"Extraordinary," he breathed.

The older man beside him chuckled. "Actually, it's fairly unremarkable as far as English palaces go. I'll admit the park is delightful, although to my mind Richmond has a fairer prospect. But if I were eighteen like you, filled to the brim with tales of knights and fair maidens, I'd prefer Windsor. It's right out of the old times, son; no better palace in Europe to witness a joust. And I hear the King is an aficionado, unlike his father – but that one was no true knight, hm?"

A master of understatement, was Uncle Pierre.

King Henry the Eighth had ascended the English throne just that spring and in some ways he'd had an easy time of it, for his accession had been peaceful and his treasury was full to bursting. But those advantages had been countered by the seemingly never-ending string of disasters his father had left behind for him to fix. Stassi had seen the crumbling walls of the Castle of Calais with his own eyes just a week ago, had heard the laments of the sailors and fishermen of the deteriorating port with his own ears. Money was finally beginning to pour in to repair them but after so many years of neglect it would take time to finish the job.

"It's France they fear, not the Empire," his uncle had said. "Maximilian's subjects depend too much on the wool trade for him to consider an invasion, but Louis? If he weren't bogged down at Padua right now he'd already have his siege engines rolled up to the walls."

"He must find the English occupation of his homeland an insult to his honour as King."

But Uncle Pierre had laughed. "Louis isn't that starry-eyed, son; what the King of France wants is the harbour. Picardy might be the breadbasket of France but it has no port. If the French want a piece of the North Sea grain trade – or the butter and cheese trade, for that matter – they need Calais. No, Stassi: war is never undertaken for matters of honour. Kings desire money, power, and security – in that order, mind you – and the so-called 'chivalric code' is nothing but a veneer to hide the savagery of war."

Despite his wince at his uncle's blithe dismissal of knightly virtue, he couldn't deny the sense in his words; no matter the state of repairs, the harbour was well worth fighting for – and the lay of the land between the town and France would make an invasion child's play if the English king were to relax his vigilance at the wrong time. He couldn't have learned that lesson so well from a choir stall in Turin.

When his uncle had asked him to join his embassy on behalf of the Duke, he'd feared that his dominus, Fra Pietrangelo, would refuse him permission to leave the university. But the old man had instead urged him to go, saying that there was no better training for a diplomatic career than diplomacy itself. He'd even suggested that Stassi defer taking minor orders until he returned, as it made more sense to wait until he had the time to dedicate himself to a preliminary course of prayer and fasting.

His uncle had agreed with the old monk's suggestion, albeit for a markedly earthier reason. "By the Mass, boy," he'd cried, "this is your last chance to fuck your fill! It wouldn't be as easy with a tonsure now, would it?" And then he'd thumped him between the shoulder blades so hard he'd almost fallen into the street.

Naturally, Stassi didn't tell Fra Pietrangelo of his uncle's learned opinion – nor, to be honest, of how sweet the words had sounded in his ears – but the wise monk had no illusions. He'd spent most of Stassi's last week reminding him repeatedly of the dangers of travel and the need for frequent confession, as the roads of the continent were ripe with what he'd called 'decadent' sin.

Praise God, the old man had been right. Every town between Turin and Calais had teemed with lovely young girls eager to assuage the loneliness of a young traveler for little more than a few drinks or a flash of silver. Even better, he soon discovered that he could get more out of them than the obvious. As soon as he told them he was on his way to London they couldn't help but relate every snippet of gossip they'd heard of the place – and the closer to the Channel, the wilder the tales. In Burgundy proper the girls were fascinated by the King himself; impossibly tall and slim, they said, with flaming hair and a taste for wenches who couldn't help but spill out of their bodices. In the Low Countries, though, the topic on everyone's lips was the fate of the Princess of Wales. The dark beauty at Bonheiden had been the first to tell him of Catrine the neglected princess, locked away for years with only her ladies and an elderly priest for company, while the girl at Bruges – talk about spilling out of a bodice – had added the interesting detail of the young royal bastard got on a fine Castilian lady in exchange for life-saving medicines. But it had been the blonde at Dunkirk who'd told him the worst of it: that the Princess's ladies had been forced to submit themselves to the lecherous old King to protect their mistress from her father-in-law's unnatural desires.

He might have learned more from the girls he'd spent the night with at Canterbury but neither of them had understood French. Then again, they hadn't needed to.

"Stassi?"

He jumped in the saddle. "Uncle, sir; forgive me…"

But he roared with laughter. "You've still got those redheads on your mind, don't you? And why not? Come on, son; I think I can see Nico and the boys waiting for us near the stables."

He felt his face grow hot, but he meekly followed Uncle Pierre down the trail toward the palace without saying a word. The man was inordinately proud of Stassi's successes with women and even prouder of the information he'd gleaned from them, but he'd also warned him to take everything he heard with a grain of salt. Lies always came embedded in truth and truth in lies, he'd said; never trust blindly, but never forget.

His cousin Nicolas was indeed just outside the stable door. "We've been given rooms on the second floor, Uncle," he told them as Adriano and Emmanuel took the horses. "The Council will see you this afternoon at Nones. Oh, and the kitchens have sent up hot water for your bath – and for you to wash up too, Stass."

Uncle Pierre was dumbfounded. "A bath?" he demanded, his eyes blazing. "Why in Hell would I want to take…are you mad, boy?"

Nico shrugged. "It's a rule of the court, sir. Rumour is the Milanese envoy was tossed out on his arse for refusing."

The older man sighed deeply, then nodded. "If the King wills it, I suppose I have to take my life into my hands and risk immersion. The things we do for our prince. Were you able to get us anything to eat?"

"Just a cold collation from the kitchens. I didn't know if you wanted a full meal…"

"No, that's good thinking. Wouldn't want to heat the blood any more than necessary." He turned to Stassi. "Shall we, son?"

Their rooms were bright and spacious, and Stassi was pleased to discover that he had been given his own clean pallet and even a hook for his clothing. Once they'd cleaned up, dressed in their finest, and helped themselves to beef and bread, he and Nico took the opportunity to unpack the gifts the Duke had chosen for the King and his family – and the portrait their master hoped would induce the English King to become his brother.

Princess Philiberta, the Duke's only legitimate sister, was indeed a fine lady, with flashing black eyes, chestnut hair, and every promise of future beauty, and her portrait was indeed an accurate representation of her charms. Unfortunately, she was also only eleven years old. Stassi suspected that a king with only a bastard half-brother and two sisters – one married to a rival king – would hardly wait four or five years for a bride, deeming the Duke's chances of success as slim to none. That of course didn't mean he resented the trip; he'd enjoyed every day – and every night – of it and, more importantly, had learned more about diplomacy over the past two months then he had in two years at Turin.

The door to their rooms suddenly opened to admit a mousy little man in his late twenties. He was well-dressed – obviously a courtier, not a groom – but he seemed so timid that Stassi wondered if he'd ever had the guts to speak to a woman, let alone tumble with one.

The man finally caught Uncle Pierre's gaze and dropped him a perfect bow. "My lord Vicomte, I bring greetings from His Majesty."

Uncle Pierre drew himself up to his full height. "It is good of him to send you, Master…"

"Henry Norris, my lord," he supplied. "His Majesty wishes to know whether Your Lordship would be amenable to meeting with him – and Her Highness the Princess Dowager – before this afternoon's Council meeting."

"I would be honoured." He rose to his feet. "Shall we bring the portrait?"

"Not at this time. However, with Your Lordship's permission, I would ask that our grooms be allowed to take it down to the Council rooms to mount it." He grinned. "We have that down to an art by now."

Uncle Pierre laughed. "I'm not surprised. I take it His Majesty hasn't made a decision?"

"Not as of yet, my lord," he replied, gesturing to the door. "If Your Lordship would follow me."

They accompanied Norris and Uncle Pierre down to the first floor via the main staircase, Stassi carrying the gifts for the Princess and the little Earl of Richmond and Nico carrying the shield Duke Charles had commissioned for the King. He couldn't stop staring at everything; he'd never seen such splendour and luxury in his life. Every wall was covered in brilliant tapestries and works of art, every detail of the ceilings was picked out in gold leaf...even the rushes had been scented with costly perfumes. It made the Chambéry look like a hovel – and if his uncle had spoken right, this wasn't even King Henry's greatest palace.

Just before they reached the doors to the audience chamber they caught sight of a group of young ladies dressed in brilliant damasks straight from the studios of Venice. "The Dowager Princess of Wales's maids of honour," Norris told them under his breath. "I warn you, they are notorious for their chastity."

Nico's elbow dug into his side.

As they waited to be admitted he went over the rules his uncle had drilled into their minds. Stand two paces behind him; kneel and bow when he does; keep your eyes averted; pay attention; don't move a muscle until you're called forward; never look directly into their faces unless they talk to you; never turn your back on them.

The doors suddenly swung open: the guards uncrossed their pikes, while at the same time the herald pounded his stave on the floor and announced his uncle in a booming baritone.

"His Excellency Pierre-Antoine Galois de Regard, Vicomte de Charvonnex, Sieur de Doucy: Ambassador of His Highness Charles, Duke of Savoy!"

They entered the enormous room, kneeling once, twice, three times before reaching the base of the platform upon which the King's massy throne rested. As he and Nico followed his uncle in a deep bow (easier said than done while carrying a large walnut box), he peeked up, just for a fraction of a second, intending to get a look at the man on the throne.

He instead found himself looking into the face of a goddess.

He had no idea how he'd wrenched his gaze away from her; certainly no one else seemed to be aware of his befuddlement. But the rest of the audience went by in a haze as he was forced to use every last shred of his will and attention to keep from prostrating himself at her feet. She was everything; she was the sun and the moon; she was Diana, Venus, and Proserpina all in one.

A movement at the edge of his field of vision made him look up again, up into her lovely pale face framed by luxuriant red-gold hair – and then she smiled.

His destiny suddenly played out before him in a brilliance he'd never before known. He would die for her; live for her too, if she wanted.

Before he knew it they were bowing again and backing out of the room; once the doors had closed his uncle turned to face them, a relieved smile on his face. "I think that went very well, don't you?"

"Yes, sir," he replied, his voice shaky.

"Smooth as silk," Nico added.

They returned up the stairs and back to their rooms. "Council meets in just under twenty minutes," Uncle Pierre said as he poured himself out a cup of wine, "and apparently they want me there by myself, so I'll leave you two rapscallions to your own devices until supper. I see the portrait's already gone." He looked over at the groom standing by the door. "When were they here, Adriano?"

"Just after you left, my lord."

"Excellent. I presume they didn't touch anything else?"

"No, my lord."

He drained his goblet and tossed it to the boy. "The King seems like a decent sort," he mused, turning back to Stassi and Nico. "The kind you can work with. Not too hungry for glory, thank God, but perhaps…perhaps a slight bit angry?"

"Angry, Uncle?" Nico asked.

"At himself. Or disappointed; it's hard to say. They certainly do see each other as brother and sister so there's nothing to worry about there." He grinned again. "I'd better get back downstairs before they miss me. I'll see you two tonight."

Once he had left Nico poured them both wine and handed Stassi a cup, dismissing the groom with a nod. "So," he began, "how did you think the audience went?"

He let out a hollow chuckle, gulping down his wine as he dropped into a chair. "I wish I could tell you. To be honest I don't remember a word of it."

Nico frowned at him. "You don't…what...?"

"Have you ever had a moment," he began, "where your life suddenly…transforms? One moment you know who you are and where you belong, and the next you don't?"

"Can't say that I have, unless you count the day I married Madeleine," he replied, refilling their cups and taking a seat across from him, "and that was more horror than wonder, as you well know. Seeing the King of England did that to you?"

He pressed his lips together. "Not the King."

"You mean…" Nico started to rise out of his seat, but suddenly dropped back with a whoop of laughter. "By the saints, Stass! She's not one of your tavern wenches; she's a princess!"

He dropped his head into his hands. What an idiot he was! He was no nobleman like his uncle or even an heir like Nico. He was nothing but the second son of a humble notary, long dead and cold in his grave, who'd had the good fortune to marry a viscount's sister. His destiny was the Church and the court of a minor European prince; only with good luck and years of hard work would he ever prove himself fit for anything more. He was simply not fit to lick the boots of a proud princess of Spain. He was no courtier, and only a gentleman (barely) by association.

And yet…and yet something told him none of that mattered.

He looked up again at Nico, who was clearly enjoying the moment. "I know she's a princess," he said. "I'm not stupid. It's just..." But how could he find words to explain?

"It's just that you're Uncle's golden boy and you don't want to screw it up."

"Golden boy!" he cried. "Nico, you're the heir; you're the Sieur de Charvonnex."

"But you're the genius." He crossed to Stassi and crouched down in front of him, placing a hand on his shoulder. "That's why Uncle brought you along. Oh, he might have enjoyed reliving his youth by watching you sow your wild oats…"

He snorted.

"…but he knows you've got a bright future ahead of you, brighter than any of us. And you don't want to throw that away just because you've had some ridiculous _coup de foudre_ over a Spanish princess you've only seen once and probably never will again."

"She's more goddess than princess, Nico."

"So you're adding blasphemy to pretension. No doubt you'll make a fine bishop one day."

He could only laugh at that.

Nico pulled him to his feet. "Come on, let's go back downstairs. Maybe we can catch a glimpse of the maids of honour; now there were some pretty girls who could take your mind off this ridiculous infatuation."

He allowed himself to be coaxed out of their rooms and down to the great hall, where indeed four of the Princess's maids of honour were dancing to the strains of a lute while the older courtiers watched. As he looked around, his eyes on the rich clothes of the ladies and the brilliant tapestries hanging against the walls, he promised himself he would do anything he could to remain in England and close to the Princess. He might not be a lord or even much of a gentleman but he had a good mind and boundless determination, and nothing, he vowed, would stand in his way.

Nico suddenly beckoned to him from where he'd been speaking with a tall blonde woman only a few years older than the maids of honour. "Stass, come meet the Princess's lady-in-waiting, Lady Parr."

He executed the courtliest bow he'd ever made over the lady's hand, disguising his wince at Nico's churlish introduction. "Your servant, my lady."

She smiled at him, clearly willing to take him on his own merits. "Monsieur. Your name is…Stass?"

"A family nickname, my lady," he replied with a quick glare at Nico. "My name is actually Eustache…Eustache Chapuys."

"Then I hope to see you around court, Monsieur Chapuys."

He certainly hoped she would.

* * *

Very little is known of Eustache Chapuys's mother. Some say she was the daughter of a burgher, while others claim she was from noble stock. We simply don't know for certain, so I invented a background for her - and an older brother.


	7. To be Opened on Our Death

Palace of Westminster  
30 November 1509

Thomas Wolsey was used to receiving letters by private messenger. As Almoner he was King Henry's general factotum, tasked with those matters too delicate to place before the Council, but his primary job was handling the sums His Majesty dedicated to pious and charitable use. He didn't distribute the funds himself, of course – he had a room of clerks to do that – but he was the one who decided whose efforts should be supported and whose should not. As such he frequently received 'kindnesses' from abbots and priors looking for preferment, and these were often sent by messenger due to their value and weight.

This messenger, however, had come all the way from Rome.

Archbishop Warham had discovered the document Wolsey now held in his hands behind some old privy accounts in the back of his escritoire while he was setting up his embassy. 'I have not disturbed the seal and wish not to be advised of its contents,' he'd written in his covering note, 'as I well remember the old King's black countenance when he gave it to me. My first instinct was to burn the thing but instead I send it to you on the chance that it references lands or monies which could be put to use by our current sovereign.'

The outside of the the letter bore the ominous inscription, 'To the Right Honourable the Lord Chancellor, to be Opened On Our Death'. He broke the seal, pried open the parchment, and spread the tightly folded sheets out on his desk.

 _My Lord_ , it read,

 _In your missive of 14 Feb ultimo you asked us once again to consider remarriage in order to secure the succession of our realm. This letter is meant not only as explanation for our failure to do so but also as warning, for our celibacy is involuntary and, perhaps, illusionary. The matter cannot be explained but with some difficulty, but it is imperative that it be explained and that action be taken by you or your successor to protect our realm once we are unable to do so._

 _You are no doubt aware, My Lord, of the circumstances of the Dowager Princess, who remains at Durham House. What you are not aware of is why we have kept her so straitly. We freely admit our fault in the matter, although it has been confessed and is no longer of import, but understand this: blame for the entire matter rests on the shoulders of His Highness the Prince of Wales. He is stained black with a sin we hardly dare mention, a sin that must be extirpated lest it infect the entire realm._

Wolsey paused to rub the bridge of his nose with weary fingers. He wasn't surprised the old man had known; no king who sat as lightly on his throne as Henry Tudor the Elder had would fail to notice any peculiarity in his only son, nor would he fail to take measures to lessen the risk of repercussions. The prince had been kept as closely as a noble prisoner in the Tower since his mother's death, sleeping at the foot of his father's bed and spending his days in the constant company of the yeomen of the guard. He hadn't even been permitted to pray or confess alone. It had been a futile effort which had probably made things worse, he thought; how many of those yeomen had unwittingly danced through the young prince's dreams?

He would have wondered if they still did, but he trusted Ned Bayne to have replaced them by now. If only the boy were a better spy...

The letter continued:

 _We freely admit we have not handled the matter well. As King we did nothing to remove him from the succession, benumbed by the knowledge that without a Prince of Wales the security of our throne would be threatened and we could fall as quickly as our predecessor the Usurper did once his son sunk into the grave. But we also knew that a prince stained by sin could never be a successful king. Why, then, have we not simply remarried, sired another son, and quietly disposed of our cursed heir? Therein lies our greatest misstep. As the truth of our situation became clear we grew intemperate and foolishly directed our fury at the Dowager Princess. Wine was involved, we admit, but the greatest share of the blame must still fall on His Highness alone for the stain which provoked our own regrettable insult against Her Highness's person. I trust I do not have to elucidate._

He was suddenly very glad Archbishop Warham hadn't read the letter.

It wasn't the King's admission of his sin – crime, if you could use that word to describe a King's actions – that would have broken the old man's heart; all men sinned, after all. It was his patent refusal to accept responsibility for it. He made excuses, he redirected, he hid behind words like 'misstep' and 'insult', he slipped around the truth like a greased eel. No, Wolsey had too much respect for the prelate to ever wish to see him disillusioned to such an extent.

He read on:

 _This is also why we have not remarried. Your Lordship will recall the Treaty of Toledo, in which our heir agreed_ per verba de præsenti _to marry the Dowager Princess. What you may not recall are the tentative negotiations that were undertaken at the same time to marry her to ourself and which, we fear, might have constituted a betrothal_ per verba de futuro. _If that is indeed the case, the consummation (as it were) may have resulted in our marriage to her. The uncertainty has stayed our hand with respect to both remarriage and her removal, for if she be our wife we can neither marry another nor openly dispose of her, but if she be not we must not recognize her as such. As we cannot act either way, we have recently placed Her Highness in the keeping of two of our trustiest men whom we pray will do what we cannot._

He sat back in his chair and let out a sigh. What a fool; the old man hadn't even been learned enough in the law to know that a woman cannot be betrothed to two men at the same time. He briefly wondered why the King had never sought expert opinion on the matter: but no, that was never his way. Secret, secret, always secret, then the explosion – and woe to those close enough to be burned.

He suddenly noticed that the room was quickly growing dark; he lit another candle and read the final page.

 _If she precede us in death, we intend to remarry and sire a new heir. If this does not occur, however, the Prince of Wales must succeed – for now. Let him marry, willingly or not, and sire sons if he can. Once he does and England possesses an uncursed prince…well, we have always found arsenic a sure remedy for any ill that the axe or the noose cannot touch. As for the Dowager Princess, do what you will with her: she is of no matter to us._

 _We pray that it is many years before you open this letter. Perhaps God will accomplish what we have not; we are certain of His mercy._

 _Henry Rex_

Wolsey rose to his feet and crossed to the fireplace, thrusting the letter and Warham's note into the fire. God's mercy indeed: the old King would be very fortunate indeed to have reached Purgatory.

A knock came at the door just as the last fragments of parchment shrivelled and blackened. "Enter," he called.

Rob Rushton poked his head into the doorway. "My Lord Almoner, His Majesty has asked for your presence in the council chamber at your earliest opportunity."

He grimaced; it was almost supper time. "Do you know why?"

"Another portrait from the continent – and wait 'till you see this one!"

He could hardly bear the suspense.

By the time he reached the chamber the King had already been joined by Lord Edward Howard and Fernando de Victoria, both of whom were viewing the portrait Rushton had mentioned with dismay. "The poor girl," Lord Edward murmured as Wolsey bowed to the King. "Let's hope for her sake the painter is an incompetent ass."

Or blind, Wolsey thought.

The portrait was of a girl of about twelve, with lovely red hair, flawless skin, and a straight nose; that much could be said in her favour. But her brow jutted out rather violently between her disturbingly sunken temples and her mouth…he wondered if her jaws even met. Her left shoulder also seemed disconcertingly high.

The King sighed as he ran a hand over his eyes. "The Marques of Cañete says it's a flattering portrait."

"Flattering, Harry?" Sir Charles Brandon boomed as he entered the room behind them. "She must be a right Gorgon then to the naked eye."

The King raised a hand. "Let us not be cruel, Charles," he warned his friend. "Eleonora is only eleven and a princess of Castile and Austria. We should instead pray that she grows out of this unfortunate disorder…or whatever one calls it." He turned to de Victoria. "Do you think that possible, doctor?"

He shook his head. "I am only surprised Her Highness is not an imbecile, Majesty," he replied. "She is by all accounts a pious, intelligent girl, but God has clearly withheld from her the greatest gift He can give a lady."

"She's one of Philip and Juana's brood?" Howard asked, his brow knit. "How the hell did that happen?"

It was an excellent question. Philip hadn't been known as 'the Handsome' for nothing, and Juana was – well, perhaps she didn't possess the flaming beauty of her sister Katherine but she wasn't ugly by any stretch of the imagination either. For this hapless child to be their offspring…it hardly seemed possible.

Fortunately, it didn't matter. As Princess Katherine's niece, she shared an affinity in the second degree with King Henry and they could therefore not contract a marriage without dispensation. In fact, most of the potential brides on the list he'd compiled before the King's accession suffered from the same defect. Most…but not all.

By then the other Councillors had made their way into the room and were occupied with the important job of frowning over the Princess's portrait; he instead took the opportunity to catch Lord Mountjoy's eye. "My lord."

"Mr. Wolsey." They withdrew to the corner. "Anything from Mantua, my Lord Almoner?"

He shook his head. "King Louis's war is working in our favour."

"Praise God." Mountjoy looked around, then lowered his voice. "And you are sure the delay will serve us well?"

"My lord, trust me. I understand the King and I understand the way he thinks. Were we to bring the portrait of the Mantuan princess in front of him now, it would suffer the same fate as those from France, Bavaria, the Palatinate, Pomerania, Savoy, Navarre, and now Mechelen."

"I certainly hope you're right; they cancelled the wedding to Urbino in expectation, you know."

Their eyes met. "Don't worry, my lord; I know what I'm doing. That Eleonora is well worth the wait."

She definitely was. Wolsey had met her two years ago on the way to Rome on behalf of the old King, who had sent him to petition Julius on some matter or other. Eleonora Gonzaga was tall, dark, cultured, pious, highly intelligent, and tolerant of the failings of men – and she was seventeen, a fine age to bear the weight of a husband. Most importantly, she was so distantly related to the parties in question that no dispensation of any kind would be needed. She was a princess in a thousand, one any king would be pleased to have as Queen. And he, Thomas Wolsey, would be the one to 'discover' her…when the time was right.


	8. The Art of Defence

Just a quick shout-out of thanks to everyone who's reading and (I hope!) enjoying this story, and huge thanks to those of you who have kindly left reviews. You are my lifeblood!

I received a PM from a reader who was confused about the events in the story. This is an alternative universe work of fiction, the point of departure being a different meeting of sperm and egg in the autumn of 1490 that resulted in a different Prince Henry being born. Those differences underpin every departure from reality – or 'butterfly' – in this story.

* * *

Richmond Palace  
21 January 1510

A sword was that most masculine of weapons, a sign of not just power but virility and courage as well. A woman holding a sword constituted a mockery of chivalry and was a sign of all that was wrong with the world, unless the woman in question was a saint – or a fighting Spanish princess.

Charles Brandon had squawked and squealed when Catalina asked him to recommend a master of defence, going so far as to run to the King with complaints of her 'unnatural' desire to wield a sword. Henry had just laughed, pointing out that she wasn't merely the daughter of Isabella the Catholic but had been born on campaign, her mother rising from childbed mere hours after her birth to do battle with Muley Hacén. "Blood will out, Charles," he'd said, "and anyway neither you nor I have any real say in the matter. My sister is a widow of an Englishman, _femme sole_ under the law; she may do as she wishes, and if she's going to try I'd prefer she learn from an expert."

So Brandon had, very unwillingly, found her a master. Anatolio Vadi was the grandson of the writer of _De Arte Gladiatoria Dimicandi_ , the Italian treatise on fighting with longsword, dagger, and spear, and was a proud man who didn't allow his respect for his students' rank to get in the way of their training. He also had no qualms about teaching a woman, especially after he learned that Dr. de Victoria (who had once saved his life) had recommended the sport to her as the best possible way to recover her balance and strength.

That, of course, was only part of the story.

Catalina did need the exercise, but if her physical health had been the only factor she would have been equally served by horseback riding, hunting, or archery, sports which even the most delicate princess was permitted to partake of. But none of those pastimes exhausted her enough to ward off the dreams that tormented her night and day. She would be drowsing or listening to some pompous ambassador drone on, and in an instant she'd find herself back at Richmond with the old king shoving her face-down on the floor, twisting her arms half off as he shredded her skirts with a dagger…

"Watch the measure! _The measure_!" Vadi cried as she circled her prey, her training sword slashing just short of the dummy's padded torso. "A cut _fuori misura_ is a waste of energy, Your Grace. Eyes up! Extend!"

She wiped the sweat out of her eyes and tried again.

Certainly she had no illusions that she would ever be a great warrior. Childbirth and hunger had taken too much out of her and she would never equal her mother's proficiency with a sword, let alone a man's. But even after four weeks she could see a difference; she was lighter on her feet and more agile, and she was sleeping through the night as well.

"You're learning very quickly," he told her at the end of the day's exercises, "quicker than most men who begin at your age. You have the eye for it, the dexterity, and a good low centre of balance. The only thing I worry about is…"

"Yes, master?"

"Well, to be honest, Your Grace, it's your height," he said. "It's time for you to begin training with a partner, but none of the lords who use my services are short enough to suit. You wouldn't mind…your honour wouldn't be offended by training with a commoner?"

 _What honour,_ she thought.

But she didn't dare admit that even to her English ladies, let alone this man. "It wouldn't offend me in the least, master," she told him instead. "If you know of a man who is willing to assist, I would happily train with him."

But he sighed and rubbed his nose. "That's the problem, isn't it? Every week there are new men at court, but I don't see them down here unless they want lessons or a defence partner. I'll ask around, Your Grace."

She allowed her ladies to assist her with her cloak, pulling it close around her as she stepped out of the training barn and into the brisk east wind. There was a joust scheduled in two days' time – on the Feast of the Blessed Virgin's Betrothal, not a day she would have personally associated with the wielding of great long lances – and the weather seemed to be holding. Already the court was abuzz with rumours of knights coming from across Europe to test their mettle, including one mysterious 'Sir Lancelot' who, it was being said, had ridden all the way from the wilds of Bavaria to compete. As the Lady of Honour, the official entrusted with the real names of all the contestants, Catalina could only hope that 'Sir Lancelot' didn't end up too bruised to sit comfortably on his throne the next day.

They arrived at her apartments just as Doña Maria and Jane Wentworth were filling the bathtub in her bedchamber with rose-scented water. "His Majesty has asked that you be in attendance at his audience with King Sigismund's envoy this afternoon, Highness," Mistress Wentworth said as her other maids eased her out of her sweat-soaked overgown and chemise. "I'm afraid it's just a trade mission; his master doesn't have any legitimate daughters to dangle in front of the King's eyes."

It was music to her ears. Most of the diplomatic audiences she'd attended – all of them, now that she thought of it – had consisted of some fatuous old grandee expounding at uncomfortable length on the virtues of a child too young and naïve to understand what she might be getting herself into. Discussions of trade would make a very welcome change indeed, although she had to wonder what resources Poland had that would be worth the long journey from the Baltic.

She also wondered if this envoy had come bearing gifts. It was unlikely, she decided, since without an eligible princess to place in front of Henry they had no reason to bribe her. Why they all assumed she had a say in the matter she didn't know; she wasn't a member of the Privy Council. Her duties were to act as Henry's hostess and to make it possible for ladies to come to court – ladies who in turn attracted young gentlemen eager for glory. And there were certainly enough of them these days. There was that one—

She stepped into the steaming water, sighing as her thoughts wafted away and the moist heat began to work its magic on her aching muscles.

Her childhood in Spain had been idyllic in some ways, she thought as she lathered herself with the lemony Castile soap she loved so much, but it had never been truly stable. That was perhaps not surprising given that her earliest memories were not of her parents or her nannies but of the corpses of Spanish infantrymen left to rot in the summer sun at Baza. She'd witnessed the cruelties of war before she could read, had held the hands of dying soldiers before she'd cut her first adult tooth. And sometimes, late at night, tucked into a cot in her mother's tent, she'd wondered what would happen if they lost the war.

Of course she hadn't realized how unlikely that was given her mother's martial skills and her father's slippery diplomatic talents, but a five-year-old sees the world from a different viewpoint than a grown woman, and lying in her mother's tent she'd wondered what she would miss the most if the Reconquista failed and they were driven out of Spain. In her naïveté she imagined she'd miss her fine clothes, her jewels, and all the other accoutrements of the position of princess. But that had been a child's dream; when the world truly fell out from under her feet she hadn't been able to spare the time or energy to care about extravagances. No, what she'd missed the most was time to relax – especially in a steaming hot bath – and good books to read. She would never take either for granted again.

She stretched out like a cat, letting the cambric that lined the wooden tub smooth out under the backs of her legs. The heat was easing every ache out of her body, taking away every twinge in her…

"Highness?"

She blinked herself awake, looking up into Lady Derby's eyes. "I…how long do I have until the audience?"

"Two hours, Highness. Doña Maria suggested you might wish to dine first."

She rose from the bath and stepped out, letting her ladies pat her dry. She'd heard that the French were now bathing _en chemise_ , purportedly out of an excess of modesty among the ladies of quality of the land. She'd shaken her head at the idea, almost laughing out loud at the thought of a French 'lady of quality' too refined to expose her person, but that was only because her own skin was so pale; had she been darker of countenance she might have been forced to adopt the innovation herself to cover the marks Doña Lina had developed during her own pregnancy.

No, she thought, brushing a fingertip absentmindedly along the edge of her flat belly: her scars were on the inside. Old King Henry might have won that battle but she had won the war.

Once she had been redressed she returned to her sitting room, where Lady Shrewsbury was tasting her dinner. She gave the tray a closer look, finding to her satisfaction plentiful helpings of roast fowl, stewed apricots, a salad of lettuces and marigold from the greenhouses, and manchet bread and butter. Dr. de Victoria had been adamant that until she was fully recovered she must dine and sup in private _a l'espagnole_ whenever possible, with fruit and fresh vegetables at every meal and no delays of protocol between kitchen and table. She wasn't about to complain, especially now that her appetite had returned with such a vengeance.

She turned to Maria de Salinas, who was working on a shirt for Juan. "Doña Maria, would you be so kind as to play for us?"

"Very willingly, Your Highness."

Her dinner was indeed as delicious as she had hoped; once the plates had been cleared away she returned to her escritoire, picking up the letter that had arrived yesterday from Lisbon as Doña Maria played a Valencian air on the lute. Her sister Maria's last letter had been full of fears about her husband's intention to send their fourth son to sea but it now appeared that King Manuel had instead decided on the Church for little Afonso. It was a fine career for a younger son and especially one with three healthy older brothers, but she still wondered why Manuel seemed to be in such a rush to settle the child; he was, after all, only nine months old.

Catalina couldn't have asked for a better correspondent than her sister. Maria had been the first member of her family to write once news of the old King's death and her escape had reached the continent, but she hadn't just sent her one letter; she'd sent over two hundred, all written over the four years they'd been forbidden to correspond. Maria had decided that even if Catalina couldn't receive letters there was no reason she couldn't write them, so she'd written her one letter a week, saving them up against the day when (as she put it) the "wicked Welsh wretch" would die and her baby sister would be free. They'd contained every bit of family news Catalina hadn't been told of over the years of her captivity – children, marriages, deaths – but there was one event that still sent guilt searing through her belly like a white-hot knife every time she thought of it.

She'd known something of the disaster that had befallen Juana and her husband Philip three years earlier. As her father's ambassador she couldn't have been kept completely ignorant of the shipwreck that had killed Philip or her sister's subsequent descent into madness and immurement in a convent. But she hadn't been told that the ship and Philip's life might both have been saved had they made for the English coast. According to Maria they'd been less than ten miles from the port of Melcombe in Dorset when the storm hit, but Philip had been reluctant to risk the 'hospitality' of the king who'd imprisoned his wife's sister and had instead ordered the ship's master to make for Cherbourg – taking them right into the eye of the storm. By the time a Norman fisherman discovered the wreck adrift off Alderney Philip was dead and Juana, who had spent the better part of two weeks cooped up with his rotting corpse, had been driven completely mad.

 _If only she had died it would never have happened._

 _If she had died…_

She dropped the letter back on the escritoire, rising to her feet and crossing to the window. Juan was leading his very first hunt that morning, taking with him not just his governor and two of his friends but also the fine yew wood bow he'd been given by the Duke of Savoy's ambassador. He'd also taken the ambassador's nephew, a bantamweight peacock with dark hair and piercing blue eyes who'd remained at court after his uncle's return to the continent. The young man seemed to be everywhere these days…or at at least he seemed to be everywhere she looked.

She suddenly found her face growing warm.

By then Doña Esmeralda had joined her at the window. "A fine day for hare, Highness," she said, before lowering her voice to a murmur. "I'm sure they'll be back soon. Don't worry."

She smiled; even when they were children Esmeralda de Vargas had always been able to read her mind – to a point. Then again, she wasn't sure if she wanted anyone delving that deeply into her thoughts at the moment, not even herself.

Doña Esmeralda suddenly stretched herself up on tiptoe. "There they are, Highness! It looks like…"

But she'd seen them at the same time. It had been a successful hunt – the bearers were carrying a number of hares between them – but Juan was muddied and his clothes were torn, and he had what looked to be a great smear of blood down the right side of his face and all over the front of his jerkin. She was on the verge of flying out the door when she felt the gentle pressure of Doña Esmeralda's hand in the small of her back. _You must play the aunt,_ it reminded her. _React, but don't overreact. You cannot claim him._

In fact no one could claim him, as Doña Lina (the lady who had pretended to be his mother) had been forced to return to Spain by her brother. That hadn't made things easier for the poor boy; he'd gone through so many changes over the last year – from poverty to wealth, from imprisonment to freedom, from hidalgo's putative son to royal bastard and Earl – that Lina's departure had been the final straw, and he'd sobbed in his aunts' arms for days. Catalina had willingly stepped in as 'surrogate' parent to give at least some semblance of normality to his life but there was no question he still craved Doña Lina's embrace more than her own. It cut her to the quick but it was a pain she would force herself to bear silently.

She took a deep breath and stepped away from the window. "The Earl of Richmond has returned and appears to be in need of his aunts," she said to her ladies. "Doña Maria, Doña Esmeralda, would you follow me?"

They reached the courtyard just as Juan had finished scrubbing the blood from his face; she sighed, relieved the blood wasn't his own. He looked up at them with an excited grin and ran to them, the Savoyard gentleman and little Tom Percy close behind him, but his governor, Master Heneage, was leading Shrewsbury's heir Frank Talbot away – and if she wasn't far wrong, the boy had the air about him of a child who had been most deservedly chastised.

She stopped in front of Juan as he and his companions bowed to her. "My Lord, gentlemen," she said, "it appears you've had an adventuresome morning."

Juan was radiant. "Your Highness, I would present to you…" but then he stopped with a blush. "I mean, Master Percy and Monsieur Chapuys and I would present to you the fruits of our sport."

And fruitful the morning had been, she realized, as she took a closer look at the five large hares they'd bagged. "I can see you've had a successful hunt. Who is responsible for this bounty?"

"Tom shot two of them and Monsieur shot one," he told her. "The other two are mine."

"Lord Richmond bagged the smallest one, Highness," Tom Percy added. "That was the hardest kill."

She smiled at him. "Thank you for telling me, Master Percy. I'm pleased to discover that His Lordship is developing steady aim and a good eye. But how did you come to be so bloodied, my lord? You seem unhurt."

"I am uninjured, Highness, but…"

The boys exchanged an uncomfortable glance before Tom's eyes strayed back to Frank Talbot, who was at the other end of the courtyard cowering under Heneage's disapproving frown; sensing the boys might deem the matter inappropriate for her ears, Catalina turned to her ladies. "Doña Maria, would you accompany His Lordship and Master Percy back to their rooms? We wouldn't want the Polish envoy to meet these honourable gentlemen before they had the opportunity to wash and dress."

They bowed again to her before being whisked away; once they were out of hearing range, she gave young Chapuys a sharp look. "Will you tell me what happened, monsieur? If it's a matter of honour, I believe Lord Shrewsbury should be told."

He nodded grimly. "Highness, I regret to advise that Master Talbot maimed a hare but refused to administer the _coup de grace_."

She blinked in surprise; that was a grave breach of the rules of the hunt. "Did it escape?"

"The hare was badly injured, Highness," he replied, "and had fallen into a shallow ravine, but we could hear it still moving in the brush below. When pressed on the matter Master Talbot assured us that he could 'well afford to replace the arrow'. Lord Richmond and Master Percy then moved to put the animal out of its misery but in doing so His Lordship fell into the ravine, and the animal broke his fall. His Lordship still cut its throat to be certain."

"As he should have," she replied, relieved that Juan had acted with scrupulous honour both in killing the animal and in not mentioning his companion's dishonourable actions. "Do you know why Master Talbot refused?"

"I don't think he understood what was expected of him. Perhaps as the heir he hasn't previously been held accountable."

"Perhaps he'll learn from his mistake, then." She smiled up at him again. "Thank you, monsieur. I trust you will keep this matter private unless Lord Shrewsbury asks for confirmation—"

And his eyes suddenly met hers, and their gazes locked.

 _so blue_

Flustered, she stepped back and gave him a little curtsey, praying her cheeks weren't as red as she feared.

"If Lord…if Lord Shrewsbury asks I will naturally relate the matter in full, Highness," he told her in a voice that held only the slightest quaver.

She nodded abruptly. "Thank you, monsieur."

"Your Highness."

She turned away as he dropped to his knees, but just as she was about to step through the doorway she looked back at him over her shoulder. "Monsieur—"

"Highness?"

"Are you…are you by any chance trained in the art of defence?"

* * *

I was surprised to learn that the term 'fencing' did not show up in English until much later than the date of this story. As to whether Isabella of Castile ever wielded a sword as a weapon and not merely a symbol…the literature is divided on the issue, to put it mildly.

Fun fact: in real life Juana and Philip did get caught in a storm in the English Channel in January 1507 and put in at Melcombe Regis. Henry VII 'hosted them as honoured guests' – in other words, held them hostage at his court like birds in gilded cages – for three months. Only after he had wrested favourable trade agreements from them and arranged for the English exiles in Burgundy to be (cough) dealt with did he let his 'guests' leave. Five months after their departure Philip died of a fever and Juana reportedly went mad…or at least, that was Ferdinand's story. Some writers have opined that she was in fact completely sane and the "madness" was invented to allow Ferdinand (and later her son Charles) to remove her from power.

And the real Henry VIII did joust incognito on 23 January 1510 in front of the court at Richmond...and Katherine was indeed the Lady of Honour of the tournament. Sadly, only eight days later she was delivered of a very premature stillborn daughter, her first loss of many with Henry.


	9. The Princess of England

Apologies for the delay, but one of my kind reviewers mentioned Princess Mary and I realized she was very close to reaching fourteen, the age when she would be normally be brought to court. This wasn't the easiest section to write, not because anything disturbing happens but because…well, do you remember being fourteen? Gah.

* * *

Windsor Castle  
17 March 1510

She turned her face into the wind, letting her long red hair flow behind her like the tail of a comet. It was a glorious morning, a morning with the promise of summer in the breeze—

"Posture, Highness!"

She sighed; one more day and she'd never have to heed the old biddy again.

How she loathed travelling by barge, she thought, her eyes on the schoolboys jeering at them from the north bank of the Thames. Give her a sprightly palfrey with ribbons in its mane any day; a barge was better fit for creaking grannies or gout-hobbled bishops than the Princess of England. But it hadn't been her choice, and she knew no amount of pouting to Mother Guildford would ever serve to change her brother's mind about anything.

But tomorrow she would be a woman. Old enough to head her own household, old enough to do without a lady governess: old enough to decide when – and how – she would come to court.

And there was to be a joust!

She wondered how many of the competitors would clamour to wear her favour at Monday's tournament. Mother Guildford had assured her that victorious English knights were allowed to claim only a dance from the lady whose colours they'd worn, unlike knights in France who might expect a more…interesting reward. She couldn't deny that the idea sent delicious shivers up her spine, although she's never admit that to anyone.

She would be fourteen years old tomorrow, and the world was blooming around her.

Henry was waiting for her at the dock. "Dearest sister, we welcome you to Windsor," he said, taking her hand as she stepped out of the barge: and he was not using the royal we either, for beside him was her younger half-brother John.

How strange it was, she thought, to acquire a half-grown brother – and a whore's child at that – out of the blue.

But she didn't show a hint of what was on her mind, curtseying deeply to the King. "Your Majesty," she said after rising, "I thank you for your invitation and I look forward to next week's festivities. Good morning, my Lord Richmond."

The boy's bow was as polite as she could ask for. "Your Highness."

They mounted their horses and made their way up to the gatehouse. Mary had to admit that the whore's son sat his pony well, even if he was only just five…or was it six? She wasn't sure, but then again hadn't been told much about his background.

When she'd first learned the astonishing news that her father had betrayed her mother's memory and sired a child on another woman, she'd imagined he'd been bewitched by a mysterious goddess clad in gold and green, a Guinevere risen from a magic well in search of her Lancelot. But that illusion had fallen from her eyes with a clang when Nan pointed out the unfortunate woman at Westminster Palace at the Coronation banquet. A dumpy little Spaniard she'd been, and old – almost thirty! How her father could have messed with any whore she'd never understand, but with such a nobody…at least her brother had understood the shame of it all and sent the woman back to her family in Spain just before Christmas. But John couldn't be blamed for the sins of his mother, and especially not by a princess as gracious as Mary; she had been raised better than that. She would do her best to treat him kindly.

Henry meanwhile had called Mother Guildford forward. "I understand you've rented a house from Charles Brandon, madam," he was saying to her as they reached the crest of the hill and turned their horses toward the castle gate. "Are you having any issues with the transaction?"

"Your Majesty is most kind to ask, but my son has matters well in hand…although he is having difficulty locating Sir Charles's steward, now that Your Majesty mentions it. The Lady Day rents are due next week, you see, and…"

It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. There was no question Sir Charles had acted unchivalrously when he'd pretended to lose a match to her brother at the January tournament. No one (least of all the King himself) had believed that the greatest knight in England could be fairly unseated by a novice jouster barely yet able to hold his lance. Henry had been quite right to punish him, but sending him to France...no, that was far too severe a penalty. Perhaps, she dreamed, one day he would return and would ask to wear her colours…

Then again, he would probably wear his wife's.

They entered the palace, dismounting at the Norman Gateway where the Princess of Wales was awaiting them. Once the niceties of court etiquette had been attended to – the curtseys and bows seemed to go on forever! – she and the Princess left the King by the gate, where a messenger had just arrived for him.

"I hope all is well with you, Mary?" the Princess asked her once they'd passed through the doorway of the State Apartments. "You didn't reach Walton too late last night?"

"Not at all, Your Highness."

But she shook her head. "Catalina in private," she corrected her, "or Katherine if you prefer. We are sisters, after all, and His Majesty believes there has been far too much coldness within the family since your lady mother died."

As they climbed the stairs up to her new rooms she couldn't help but sneak a look at the Princess – Katherine – out of the corner of her eye. There was no sign of the nervous, shivering waif who'd watched the Coronation from the gallery bundled up so tightly in woollens that only her face had peeked out. Gone were the dark circles and the jutting collarbones; gone, too, was the air of defeat and the lean, wolfish look in her eyes. In fact, in the dim light of the stairwell, the tiny princess might even have passed for young. She was certainly beautiful with her gleaming auburn hair caught up in a jewelled netted snood and her clear, pale skin – almost as beautiful as Mary herself.

But the signs of deprivation weren't all that Katherine had lost. Mary well remembered the Princess's first arrival at court back when she was betrothed to Arthur. She had been astonishingly beautiful, but she'd also worn her haughty Spanish pride like a coat of armour. She had been cold, unapproachable, dignified beyond words: but the woman who walked beside her had shed her armour...or perhaps it would be better to say that it had been stripped from her by her father's unkindness.

Mary hadn't spent much time at court in the past few years – royal children never did – but for some reason it had never entered her mind to ask after her brother's widow. If anyone had asked her she probably would have said Katherine was living on her dower lands in Wales, but she'd never given the woman a second thought. What a shock to discover that she'd actually been locked away in the Bishop of Durham's house, within walking distance of Westminster Palace! Of course she couldn't help but wonder what Katherine had done to earn her father's ire. Had she insulted him, or sent secrets back to Spain? Or had there been a mysterious lover? All she could say for certain was that she would likely never know; her brother had taken her aside and forbidden her to ask questions or discuss the matter with anyone upon pain of instant return to Eltham and indefinite banishment from court.

They suddenly stopped in front of a set of double oak doors guarded by two handsome yeomen who uncrossed their pikes as a third opened the doors for her. "Please, go in first," Katherine said, holding out a hand.

She crossed the threshold – and found herself in the most delightful set of rooms she'd ever seen.

All was light and airy, from the sun streaming through the tall southeast windows to the pale blue walls decorated with murals of exotic plants and brilliant blooms to the white wainscotting and ceiling picked out in gold leaf. The furniture was all Florentine elegance; there was even a knotted carpet on the floor! She wondered if the rooms had been Katherine's before her father had banished her, but before she could figure out a way to word the question without getting in trouble she heard Mother Guildford gasp from behind them.

Katherine looked over her shoulder at the governess and smiled. "What do you think, Joan?"

Her eyes were as wide as saucers. "Your Grace, I would have never thought the Dowager Countess's apartments could be made so…lovely."

"She did favour drab, gloomy interiors, you're right," Katherine said with a sad shake of the head. "Perhaps she was afraid to shine a light on herself for fear of what she'd see."

Mary held back a snort at that comment as she examined herself in the full-length mirror that stood beside the fireplace. Of course an old lady wouldn't want to look at herself; who would want to see all those wrinkles anyway? She quite thought that Mother Guildford, who was a full forty-nine years of age, should take the hint.

But the old hag just sighed. "I pray God grant the new King better sense than…well, I suppose it's not my place to say. Is the Princess to dine in state this morning, might I ask?"

"If she wishes." Katherine replied, raising an elegant brow at Mary.

She could think of nothing she wanted more. "Will all the knights be there?" she more blurted than asked.

"Do you mean the gentlemen who intend to joust on Monday?" Katherine asked with a laugh. "Rest assured that most of them are already at court, although I don't know how many will be in the hall. The tilt yard's been booked for days; I believe there might even be a vigil planned for tomorrow at St. George's—"

But a knock at the door interrupted them. "Enter."

But it was merely a groom – an exceedingly handsome one, Mary noticed, with long blond hair that would be the envy of any lady, Cupid's bow lips, and the thickest lashes she'd ever seen on a man.

"Master Bayne," Katherine said as he rose from his bow, "I assume you bring us a message from the King?"

He met her gaze; Mary suffered an unexpected jolt of disappointment on discovering nothing in his eyes but courtly disinterest. "His Majesty regrets to advise Your Highnesses that dinner will be delayed until twelve due to the unexpected appearance of the Marquess of Mantua."

She turned to Katherine in shock, but the older woman seemed as surprised as she was. "Mantua?" she asked, frowning at the groom. "I don't remember hearing of a visit."

"I don't believe one was planned, Madame; it appears His Grace's ship ran aground off Brighton a few days ago."

"And the court wasn't advised?" Mary asked.

But Bayne could only shrug. "They may have sent word to Westminster or Placentia by mistake, Highness. I only know that His Grace and his daughter the Princess Eleonora are at Cranbourne, and that His Majesty has just ridden out with the Duke of Buckingham and Dr. Wolsey to greet them."

Katherine suddenly seemed…skeptical, for some reason, Mary thought. "I suppose the Lord Steward knows of this?"

"I believe he has been advised, Madame, but I will ascertain that and report back to you." He pressed his lips together. "There is one other matter His Majesty wished Your Highnesses to be aware of. The Marquess…has a reputation."

"As a rake?"

"The phrase His Majesty used, Madame, was 'a most uncompromisingly direct ladies' man'. He intends to house the Marquess in the tower at the west end of the Lower Ward, but he wished you to know he's also stationed extra guards outside Your Highnesses' rooms until further notice. He also suggests that Your Highnesses and your ladies not leave your apartments unaccompanied until the Marquess has departed."

How strange, Mary thought; Katherine had turned almost completely white, and the look in her eyes…it was as if she were a thousand miles away. But before she could reach out to touch her she startled and nodded abruptly. "Thank you, Master Bayne. Please let me know if the Princess is in need of anything. In fact…" She paused for a moment, as if in thought. "Will she be housed in the Lower Ward as well?"

"I believe His Majesty intends to house her in the State Apartments."

"Then she'll surely need clothing and linens, and ladies to attend her. I'll send Lady Shrewsbury to her once she arrives. Thank you."

Once Bayne had left Katherine crossed to the window. "I wonder why…" she murmured, more to herself than to anyone, but then looked back over her shoulder. "Mary, about Ned Bayne…"

"The groom?"

She nodded. "He's…" But she paused again, as if she were unsure what to say. "He's a member of the King's Privy Household; he guards His Majesty at night. I wouldn't say anything to Ned that you didn't want our brother to know of…or his confessor."

"So they're close?"

Katherine smiled; Mary suddenly got the feeling there was something she wasn't being told. "You could say that," she said. "I should go speak with Lady Shrewsbury; the poor girl's likely lost her entire wardrobe." But in the doorway she stopped, turning back to Mary. "Perhaps we could dress in gold and black to receive the Marquess and Princess."

"The Mantuan colours!" she cried. "I have just the gown – in damask with lace trim!"

She grinned. "That sounds perfect. I'll see you at dinner then."

She could barely wait for Katherine to leave before she ran back through her bedchamber and into her dressing room, Mother Guildford at her heels. An Italian marquess! She imagined a tall, haughty man, scarred from the duels he must have fought with outraged husbands – maybe he had an eye patch!

And she was about to meet an Italian Princess!

* * *

I cannot claim credit for Ned Bayne's description of the Marquess of Mantua. The phrase was coined by Hugh Massingberd in his _Telegraph_ obituary of the 6th Earl of Carnarvon, who more than deserved it.

Fun fact of the day: there is some evidence that the real Charles Brandon did indeed cheat by throwing jousts in favour of King Henry. It worked only because the real King Henry was (unlike mine) a good enough competitor to beat almost everyone else. I can't link the article here, but if you're interested google "Charles Brandon jouster" and look for an article by Sarah Knapton in (once again) _The Telegraph_.


	10. Our Ned

I've already butterflied away Queen Elizabeth I and changed the outcome of the War of the League of Cambrai; I might as well change the identity of a Shakespearean villain while I'm at it.

Please note that there's a bit of strong language and some suggestive themes in this section.

* * *

Westminster Abbey  
1 April 1510

There were fewer than two dozen men and women huddled inside the Abbey with the King and the Princess of Wales early that Easter Monday morning. Bad weather and the well-publicized execution of a flamboyant and notorious murderer at Tyburn had kept the inquisitive eyes of the mob away from the event...not that it was exactly secret, but it was private.

Ned and his fellow grooms gently lowered the feather-light coffin onto the bier set up between sanctuary and altar, taking care that the bottom of the sealed casket pointed toward the altar – although who knew if the bones had been jumbled around during the trip down Watling. A hundred miles it had been transported, under cover of darkness and Lenten apathy: a hundred miles, to end where it had all begun almost thirty years ago.

As he helped arrange the candles around the coffin and retreated with the other grooms to the south transept while the service began, he thought back on the events of the past…almost two months, he supposed: two months that might eventually do more to calm any lingering resentment between Lancaster and York than the actions of the previous monarch ever had.

Henry had been in his study with Archbishop Bainbridge that day back in February discussing the possibility of obtaining dispensation for a joust during the upcoming Lent season when the Duke of Buckingham arrived demanding an immediate private audience on 'matters of great importance'. The King had emerged from the meeting an hour later in almost a state of shock. He'd immediately sent Ned upstairs to find Dr. Wolsey and the Archbishop and ordered Phil Langley to fetch Mr. More from his home in Cornhill.

From what Ned overheard while he and Phil were serving the wine after their arrival, the Duke had recently been going through his late father's correspondence when he'd discovered letters from the Dowager Countess of Richmond regarding – well, it was apparently a matter not fit for the ears of servants, since the King sent them out of the room at that point. By the time they returned an hour later with supper Wolsey was telling the King they should 'just leave things as they are', while Archbishop Bainbridge – the officiant at today's service – was disagreeing violently, strongly recommending a pardon and a full funeral mass at Westminster. Buckingham just sat there like a glum if slightly smug saint, while Mr. More kept reading and rereading the tattered yellow parchment in his hands and shaking his head, muttering something about old Cardinal Morton having played them for a fool.

It didn't take a great intellect to figure out what the letters must have contained. There had always been rumours about the fate of the Princes in the Tower, of course; even in his family, Lancastrian to the core and Lollards to boot, they'd doubted the official story that they'd been put to death by Richard III. But to discover that the old dragon, the Countess of Richmond, had been involved instead!

In the end they decided to bring Richard back from Leicester, quietly, and reinter him in the Abbey the day after Easter, when the mob was either sleeping off the feast or otherwise entertained over at Tyburn. As the King had said, the man might have been an usurper but he hadn't been a regicide, so he might as well be buried next to his wife and not in some God-forsaken priory in the middle of nowhere.

It wasn't as if the people would mind when they found out. If anything, Ned believed, they'd think even higher of Henry for the gesture, especially after Wolsey was done priming the pot. The man was adept at everything he put his mind to, but when it came to rumourmongering he was a true master. Even before Lent there'd been tales circulating in the taverns of the valour of Henry Monmouth, the victor of Agincourt – and the king who (totally coincidentally, of course) had reburied with honour the man his own father had overthrown.

Ned had been surprised to find himself tapped as head of the contingent of grooms that would escort the old king's remains back to London. There were twelve of them, all tall and blond: the King's Vikings, as the court had named them. They were to accompany the empty cart up Watling after the Lenten tournament and guard the coffin on the way back. But he, Ned Bayne, had been the only one given permission to handle Richard's remains.

 _If that was the kind of perk you get for fucking a king…_

It thankfully hadn't been nearly as bad as he'd feared. Abbot Small had proved himself amenable to the King's wishes, his only regret being the disruption of the fine alabaster tomb Henry VII had placed over the site of the burial. Ned had in turn expressed his regret at the disturbance they were about to cause notwithstanding his suspicion that the stone would find a new use as soon as Father Abbot himself shed his mortal coil.

Praise God, there hadn't been much left of the man but fifteen pounds (if that) of bone and light brown hair. As Ned was gently lifting the parts out of the grave he caught sight of a ferocious wound at the base of the king's skull; a shiver suddenly ran up his spine as his mind conjured up a vision of the man on his knees, head bowed in submission, expecting at worst to be honourably beheaded…and then the halberd had swung down and his brains—

They'd arrived back in Westminster yesterday evening, just in time for Henry to break his Lenten fast in more ways than one.

He shifted uncomfortably on his feet as he waited for the long litany of prayers to end. It wasn't that he didn't believe in God; he just didn't think God was all that well-served by the prayers of men like Bainbridge. He might not be a very good Christian, as his aches and pains well reminded him, but he still thought himself a better one than any of the Pope's men…especially the cynical Father Wolsey.

It was almost funny being caught between him and the King. Henry knew Wolsey had installed him in his bed but he didn't seem to care; he wasn't much for pillow talk anyway, and Ned knew better than his – patron? puppet-master? pimp? – not to push too hard for information. For one thing the King was a damn sight smarter than he had any right to be, if a bit too idealistic for a monarch; for another, Ned was himself smart enough to recognize a good thing when he saw it.

As the youngest of eight sons he'd been forced to make his own way in life, and he'd been fairly successful at it too; the monies he'd received from appreciative gentlemen and clerics during his six years at court had been sent home to Somerset to be invested by his homebody father, who thought him simply a well-liked page. He'd been mildly surprised when Dr. Wolsey had called him into his chambers shortly after the Accession – he'd assumed the man's tastes ran exclusively to women – but he'd almost fainted when the priest revealed what he really wanted out of him. He'd expected to end up on his knees, of course, but not from shock.

 _Seduce the King!_

He'd never seduced anyone in his life.

Wolsey had tried to make it seem easy but had only succeeded in making himself sound ridiculous. "He's as green as grass," the priest had said, "and as his night attendant you'll have every chance to do…whatever it is…to, um…"

The only reason he hadn't laughed out loud was that he'd been too surprised by the idea to respond. But still, he had been right; all it had taken was a few steamy glances through lowered lashes, a discreetly asked question, and a welcoming, complaisant smile.

Kings too, they say, are made of clay.

The prayers were finally coming to a close – it wasn't a full funeral mass, since according to the abbot they'd given him one back in 1485 – and by the time the next hour was over the usurper was under the tiles and had been laid to rest by his wife, this time for good. As he and the other grooms stepped out into the gloomy, wet morning he suddenly realized with a start that the man whose hacked-apart bones they'd just buried had been born in the same year as his own lady mother. His oldest brother might even have met him, although he'd surely never been as intimate with him as Ned had been.

Then again, no one ever had. What could be more intimate than handling a man's spine, or his skull?

He turned up the hood of his cloak and made his way across to the palace, where he was scheduled to serve that afternoon in the Great Hall. It was the busiest of the three chambers in the royal apartments and the least secure, but it was also where the most interesting things, good or bad, tended to happen. Ned's ostensible job that day was to stand near the doorway and look handsome but in reality he had been tasked by Henry with keeping an eye on the Marquess of Mantua, whose attentions toward the Princess of Wales had recently intensified.

After a quick bite of dinner and a wash Ned took his place in the Hall, close to where the Princess was conversing with the Marquess. Then again, maybe 'dancing' was a better description of what Mantua was doing: moving closer, waiting for her to retreat, then closer again, waiting again. But then it happened; frustrated by her constant rebuffs he darted his hand out, trying to grab her wrist to stop her from going too far.

Ned would never be sure how she'd done it – whether it was the force of her personality or that of a lightning-quick knee – but before he could reach them Mantua had slumped to his knees and was begging pardon in a strained voice. With a wordless snort of contempt she turned away and left the hall, her little Savoyard friend and her ladies in her trail.

As he watched them leave he resisted the urge to assist Mantua, who was more than old enough to look after himself, and instead returned to his position, idly wondering if Chapuys had taken the widowed Princess to bed yet…but no, he corrected himself; she would be the one taking him if and when it happened. In this world there were leaders and there were followers, and God couldn't have designed a more perfect leader than Katherine of Wales. Her pride may have disappeared during those years of banishment but she'd gained a spine of fire-hardened steel in return. She would never again allow a man to control her…and he suspected the young Savoyard would have no issue with that at all. Some men had to learn to submit; others took to it as naturally as breathing.

By the end of the afternoon he'd decided that the Marquess was a nasty bit of work but his daughter Eleonora was a charming and intelligent woman who, he believed, carried no illusions about what she might be getting herself into. Unfortunately she was also Italian, which brought up the spectre of poison should the King marry her. Not for Henry: for him.

Ned had done quite well over the past year, mainly in the form of bribes. Every man at court seemed to have a son or daughter, sister or brother looking for preferment, and it was standard practice to slip a few coins to a Privy Chamber groom in hopes that a name would slip out in the King's presence. Failure was tolerated since no one expected a single word in Henry's ear to result in an appointment, which was a good thing because Ned had never mentioned any of them to him. The amounts he'd collected had bought him enough land to set himself up for life, perhaps even enough to dower his youngest sister in gratitude to his parents. He didn't think he'd ever marry – women left him cold, and as one of nineteen children he already had almost a hundred nephews and nieces – but at the tender age of twenty he was already in a position to retire to an estate. Not bad for a ganymede, if he did say so himself.

He doubted the King would miss him, at least not much. He likened it to a course of study; he'd been sent to teach, his student had learned well, and his term as _dominus_ would shortly come to an end. Better it end than him, he supposed.

That night after the King had retired and Ned had undressed him and tended to his most urgent needs, he flopped back bonelessly on the bed with a sigh. "The bloody Gonzagas, Ned."

He looked over from the washbasin; Henry's face was a picture of defeat. "Sir?"

"I'll have to marry her, you know." He rolled up onto one elbow. "I might as well; at least she's a grown woman, she has a brain in her head, and her face is all right."

Such a ringing endorsement.

"And the quicker I marry her," he continued, "the quicker I can get her thrice-damned father out of the country and back to his war. Did you know his brother Giovanni is as we speak a hostage in Venice? I bet Francesco's glad Wolsey got him out of that pickle – and don't tell me you didn't know."

"I did guess, sir, but…"

"But the information trail only leads in one direction?"

"I'm afraid so."

They talked like this all the time. From the very first the King had understood exactly what he was and who was paying him – or at least, who was paying his base salary. He'd howled in delight when Ned had told him how many times more he earned from accepting bribes than from passing on the little information he did; these days Wolsey's share wouldn't even come close to making up a tithe.

Henry slid under the covers and patted the bed, inviting Ned to join him. "So what do you think I should do?"

"Whatever you think best, sir."

He pulled Ned close to him. "'Best' would be if I didn't have to marry at all. I'd hoped to delay it a few years. The idea just..." and he shuddered. "But I have no legitimate male heirs. The Council won't let me disown Margaret yet, and Mary…"

He didn't need to finish that thought. Mary had turned out to be a spoiled child whose father had failed to educate her properly in the duties of a princess. Henry had arranged the tournament specifically to compensate for her birthday always falling in Lent, going so far as to obtain dispensation for three days of festivities, but she'd made a complete fool out of herself and he'd been forced to send her back to Eltham in the company of two nuns who made 'mean old Mother Guildford,' as she'd put it, seem like the dove of Christian peace. The court had breathed a sigh of relief, praying that she would learn some manners by next Christmastide.

But his brat of a sister was evidently no longer on Henry's mind…

Ned awoke as the Abbey bell called the brothers to…Lauds, he judged from the sound as he rose to take his place on the pallet. The monks were meticulous in their devotions, praying every three hours night and day, in fair weather and foul.

Saints' knees for sinners – as was so often the case.

* * *

Fun fact of the day: the Marquess of Mantua was considered the greatest knight in Italy. And yes, in real life he was held hostage by the Venetians. His reputation as a ladies' man is also real; his best known mistress was the Duchess of Ferrara, whom you know as Lucrezia Borgia. She was also his sister-in-law.


	11. The Fourth of That Name

Please note that this and the next three chapters are set within the same 24-hour period.

* * *

Palace of Placentia  
25 April 1510

Eleonora Gonzaga stood in the Queen's Raying Room, her eyes on the window as her ladies laced and pinned her into her dress. She was presenting the bravest front she could muster but fear was eating at her belly, for she was about to be married, about to become a queen.

About to become a sacrifice at the altar of her father's ambitions.

About to become one of the most powerful women in the world.

"If Your Highness would be so kind as to raise her arms."

So polite the ladies were: so condescending. After today, she thought, only one person would have the authority to give her orders. She would always be subordinate to her lord and master, but to no other Earthly potentate would she ever need to bend the knee – not even her own father, she realized with a start. In private he would always be her Papa, but in public he would have to bow to her.

She turned her gaze away from the apple trees flowering in her private garden and let her eyes stray around the room. To the right was the door to her bedchamber, where that evening she would…

No. She would not think on it. The Duchess of Norfolk had given her good advice, as had her mother – but she did not need to think of it at the moment.

The Dowager Princess of Wales stood to her left, giving her silent support. She hadn't expected to make a friend of her, for not only were the Trastámaras so far above her in both rank and pride as to make such a friendship seemingly improbable, they were usually allied with Mantua's enemies. But Catalina had been as warm and accepting of her as she could have hoped from a sister by marriage. She'd also been the only one brave and thoughtful enough to inform her of King Henry's 'peculiar nature', as she'd put it.

Eleonora was a virgin, of course, but she was no innocent; how could she be? Her father was a cad who had seduced not just every servant in his household but two of his sisters-in-law as well, giving up his liaison with Aunt Lucrezia only after he had been afflicted by the French disease. It wasn't any better outside her own family. Overheated Italy – from the toe of Calabria all the way up to the Alps – festered with adultery, lechery, whoring...sins as black as night.

She just hadn't expected to find one of the more severe sins practised here in cold, proper England, least of all by her seemingly inoffensive future groom. Catalina had told her not to worry; the King was a good man who would do his best to be as dutiful a husband as he could. She might have to overlook a few…discreet friendships, but what wife did not? At least she would never have to worry about contentious bastards or over-mighty mistresses, and King Henry had no intention of copying the second Edward with his parade of favourites. If it would be done, it would be done quietly and she would never be publicly embarrassed. She might not even know.

The revelation had still shocked her to the core. She had prayed for days over the matter, had agonized over the implications. Should she plead for him to scrub the stain from his soul? Was it just a temporary depravity that could be conquered with prayer, penance, and Godly living, like the Church taught? She'd asked Catalina, but she'd merely shaken her head sadly and pointed out that the Holy Father himself suffered from the affliction. If Julius couldn't conquer it with his own tremendous faith and good works and with thousands of nuns and monks praying daily for his soul, she'd said, how could any mere mortal? It was her opinion that it was a permanent condition that could only be managed, never defeated. "He will never change, Eleonora," she'd added, "and if I were you I'd pray for the strength to accept that and give thanks to God you'll never be faced with a frivolous annulment based on lust or, worse, a bastard fighting for the throne."

Excellent advice, she had to admit.

She also found it difficult to say much in light of the immense jointure she was to receive. It was, Dr. Wolsey had told her, the same jointure that every Queen of England was entitled to, but from her perspective it was wealth beyond the dreams of avarice. There would be enough to endow colleges, to found convents, to turn herself into the greatest patron of the arts in Europe, even eclipsing her mother – and all that would barely scratch the surface of what she would receive. And on top of that she had a dress allowance that nearly equalled her father's yearly income! All she had to do was be a good, obedient wife, play the role of Queen when necessary, bear all the children her husband was able to sire on her…and look the other way.

She decided she could live with that bargain. After all, it was still better than the marriage her parents had originally arranged for her. The Duke of Urbino had seemed a sensible choice at one point, at least before the English delegation had arrived in Mantua and Dr. Wolsey had mentioned the conveniently available Prince of Wales who, unbeknownst to his father, would never be persuaded to marry his brother's widow. But Urbino's star was falling with the reputation of his uncle the Pope – and, as her father had said, dukes were a dime a dozen, especially compared to kings.

Before she knew it the last pin had been set and she was ready. Catalina took her hand and led her to the mirror, where—

She gasped in shock: _who is this goddess?_

For she did not see herself in the reflection. Gone was the wan complexion, the ragged brows, the frizzy, dull brown hair hanging limp as a wet rag. Instead she looked into the face of a ravishing beauty, with gleaming golden skin, sparkling turquoise eyes, and tight auburn ringlets spiralling over her shoulders.

She saw instead her own mother, as she remembered her from her childhood.

And the dress! Cloth of silver embroidered with pearls, with a billament of sapphires along the neckline to match the circlet she'd brought with her from Italy. That would go back to her family; having seen the English Crown Jewels, she felt no need to rob her mother of any finery.

"The silver network at the cuffs was an excellent idea," Catalina said, looking back at the seamstress and adding a few words in English. "And Lady Margaret has done wonders with your hair."

The hint woke her from her stupor. "Oh!" She turned to the lady-in-waiting responsible for much of the remarkable transformation. "Lady Margaret, thank you so much!"

She curtseyed. "Your Highness."

She turned back to Catalina. "The seamstress, I don't know her name…"

"Mrs. Jasper," she replied with a smile. "She's the widow of the late Queen Elizabeth's former tailor, and as such was able to take his place in the guild. Widows have a great deal of latitude in England…at least when the laws are enforced."

Eleonora did her best to thank Mrs. Jasper in halting English, praying she pronounced the name at least well enough to be understood; she must have been successful, for the lady blushed and curtseyed.

She only wished she knew how to console Catalina. There was no sign of distress in the Princess's face – or at least none she could perceive – but her voice had caught on that last sentence, and Eleonora wished she could do something to alleviate her sorrow. But perhaps she was not the right one to do so; after all, if Catalina's father-in-law had followed the laws of the land, today would be her own wedding day and not Eleonora's.

The fate of the Princess of Wales had been the only major sticking point in the marriage negotiations. The parties had agreed on almost every issue without a hitch; even the French envoy, Bishop de Villiers, had happily acceded to the trade and mutual defence pacts between the parties, an essential step given Mantua's long-standing alliance with France. But her father had been insistent that something be done to protect Eleonora should she find herself widowed; after all, the great men of Henry VII's court had done nothing to protect Catalina, and many of them still sat on the new King's council. Worse, compared to Spain little Mantua was a mouse in the rushes – and distant rushes at that. The two sides had been at loggerheads until Dr. Wolsey proposed that she be placed under the protection of the Pope (as represented by the Archbishops of York and Canterbury) should Henry predecease her. This was agreeable to all parties, for even if the Holy Father himself were at war with either realm the Archbishops themselves would never shirk from such a pious obligation…or so she hoped. Whether the clause would protect her she didn't know; she only prayed she would never have reason to find out.

The door opened behind her; she spun around to find her father standing in the doorway. "It's time, little one," Father said – but was he crying?

She dropped him the deepest curtsey she'd ever given him. "I ask my father for his blessing."

"You have it, little one; you always will. I…" But his voice cracked and he had to stop, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe away the tears now freely falling from his eyes before holding out a hand to her. "Your mother will be proud when she learns how you've carried yourself. You are a true princess, and soon you will be a great Queen. I only pray His Majesty realizes how fortunate he is."

She kissed his cheek. "Queen or not, I will always be your little girl." Papa might have his faults, she thought, but he had never for a moment ceased to love her.

He escorted her through the Queen's Privy Chamber into the sun-flooded South Gallery. Summer had come early to England this year, the people were saying, brought by the Italian princess who would be their Queen. Unfortunately the early summer had also brought plague to London, hence this quiet marriage at Placentia. She would be crowned, the King had promised her father, but only when it was safe for them to travel to the city.

A commotion arose at the other end of the gallery; it was the King, arriving with his household including, she noticed, Princess Mary, who seemed to be much less…energetic than she had been the week they arrived. Eleonora swept a curtsey as her father bowed so deeply his forehead almost touched the floor.

"My bride."

She looked up to find the King holding out his hand to her. She examined his face, surprised to find him just as nervous as she was. She briefly wondered if he'd ever been with a woman.

Father took her hand and placed it in the King's as the two men shared a significant look. Father wasn't one for poison – he was far too well-bred to kill a man in such a devious, underhanded fashion – but there was still an unspoken threat in his eyes. He was the bravest man she'd ever known.

Without another word the King led her into the Queen's Closet, where Dr. Wolsey awaited them. A few moments later – a matter of two brief vows and a prayer – Eleonora Gonzaga, daughter of the Marquess of Mantua, styled Princess by custom of the ruling houses of Italy, ceased to exist.

In her place stood Queen Eleanor, the fourth of that name – and England's first Italian consort.

 _Heavenly Father_ , she prayed, _please protect me._

* * *

Fun fact: In real life Eleonora did indeed marry the Duke of Urbino in 1508. Three years later he sent soldiers to kill Cardinal Alidosi, a cruel despot who had hoodwinked Pope Julius into falling for him and used the influence of the lovestruck pontiff to build his own personal fiefdom out of the northern Italian states. Even so, Urbino's assassination of Alidosi ruined his reputation and was one of the reasons behind his eventual excommunication and ouster from his duchy, which was in theory taken over by the Medicis. They left Eleonora in place to administer it, though; she was as competent as anyone else they could have found. When the political tables turned she returned power to his hands. She died at the great age of 76 years, having borne her husband fourteen children, five of whom reached adulthood.

In other words, Henry is in excellent hands.

Incidentally, the Queen's Raying Room was a combination dressing room and antechamber. The Queen's Closet was her most private sitting room, which would have contained her books, favourite paintings, and other cherished possessions. The real Henry VIII married Katherine of Aragon in this same room in the summer of 1509.


	12. The Most Natural Thing in the World

Quite a bit of suggestive language here. Also, please forgive me if I miss replying to a review; I've been getting error messages intermittently with the PM function.

* * *

Palace of Placentia  
25-26 April 1510

Nora lay slumbering in the bed beside him, exhausted by the events of the day. And no wonder; she had been up before dawn, bathed, dressed, wedded, feted, undressed, put to bed, prayed over, and, miracle of miracles, deflowered. Somehow he'd been able to draw up his courage and imagination and perform the necessary act.

Wolsey had called it 'the most natural thing in the world' last night during Henry's confession. It was how every marriage was perfected, how every child was conceived. A woman who lost her virginity to her lawful husband and remained true to him was as chaste in God's eyes as if she were still untouched. The conjugal act was the bedrock of society; it was the consolation of the poor, the duty of the noble.

It still hadn't seemed natural to him.

He reached over and gently pulled up the counterpane to cover her shoulders. It had been a hot day, but a brisk west wind had come up before sunset; he'd ask her servants to build a fire to keep her warm and slip a heating stone into the bed when he left her. He wanted her to feel comfortable and…cared for, even though they both knew court protocol forbade him remaining until morning. The maids had already interrupted them once that night, replacing the sheet smeared with the proof of her chastity while her ladies bathed her and treated the aches and pains he'd given her. They'd said the sheet would be preserved…

He stifled a giggle at the idea of a little room somewhere in the bowels of the Tower full of linen chests, each labelled with the name of a long-dead Queen, all guarded by an obscure yet well-paid court functionary ready to leap into action should someone impugn the good name of Adeliza of Louvain, dead these three hundred years.

Fortunately he hadn't been taken by surprise – well, not much – by the activity that had necessitated the change of linens, for he'd taken the precaution last week of going to the fount of knowledge of all things feminine: Will Compton. A few hints about how he wasn't sure how to handle a woman 'whose untried happiness is in our hands' had Will waxing melodiously for hour upon endless hour upon the mechanics of defloration, the difference between 'one of your strumpets' and a virgin bride, and the techniques necessary to ensure a happy wife and a babe in the belly.

Henry might be a born masquer, but that performance had pushed him to the limit.

Although perhaps Will hadn't been the best source for that information. It was, after all, Wolsey's mistress who was round as a pear; as far as he knew Compton was childless and unmarried. He supposed it didn't matter who he'd talked to as long as he learned the basics, although he thanked God once again that Charles Brandon was still in exile in France; Henry could only imagine the crude barbs he would've come up with. The man was also far too addicted to redheaded women to be allowed free rein around his wife.

 _Redheaded women,_ he mused. _A damned shame._

Nora suddenly moaned in her sleep. Who, he wondered as he brought a hand up to gently cup her chin, had spoken to her? Her mother back in Italy, probably; the story about their ship being 'run aground' off the south coast had been an obvious canard from the very first moment he'd heard it. The matter had, admittedly, been masterfully arranged. Had the Mantuans merely sent a portrait it would likely have ended up in storage at Richmond like all the others, but to send the girl herself…he would have to congratulate Wolsey on his triumph one of these days, if only to let him know he hadn't actually pulled the wool over his sovereign's eyes.

He half-hoped Catalina had found the time and courage to speak to Nora as well. Not about the marriage bed, of course; Cata had no experience of what it should be like between a man and a woman…or did she? He'd noticed that little dark-haired Savoyard sniffing around, and without much notable discouragement on her part. As he'd once told Charles, blood will out: she might have been born of the pious Isabella but she'd also sprung from the loins of Ferdinand, the lustiest king in Christendom.

He suddenly imagined Cata standing in the Great Hall, so proper and demure, the perfect chaste Spanish princess, with the pretty Savoyard secreted beneath her farthingale…

He clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his laughter. _You filthy-minded bastard!_

That fact of marital life had been another of Compton's revelations. 'She'll love it,' he'd said, wagging his brows outrageously, 'and I promise that as long as she bathes first you'll soon be loving it too.' He doubted that, although one day he'd have to try it if she wanted. As Wolsey had bluntly put it last night, Henry would be Nora's only licit source of physical satisfaction. Women were naturally more lustful than men; if he failed to please her she might succumb to hysteria or be tempted to take a lover. And even if the Church deemed certain practices sinful even between husband and wife, it would still be easier to repent of a peccadillo than to explain a cuckoo in the royal nest.

But the thought of sinful practices only served to bring a vision of beautiful Ned to his mind's eye. He'd run back to Somerset last week, scared off by the prospect of stilettos, arsenic, and all the other stereotypes every Englishman held of Italian aristocrats. There wasn't much he could say to calm his fears, since he had a point; Francesco Gonzaga might have once been the greatest knight in Italy but he'd also taken a Borgia to bed. Of course he'd let him go, with the added thanks of a few manors in his home county to soothe the sting of his departure.

He'd never loved the man, not like his mother had loved his father. Perhaps it wasn't possible; perhaps God's gift of love was only bestowed between the sexes. But that voluptuous blond mane that caught at his fingers…those sweet Cupid's bow lips…the downy pale hair trailing down his belly to…

He suddenly found himself afire with need.

"Henry?"

He looked down at her and made to speak, but she pressed a finger to his lips and drew him to her. Drew his free hand down to her belly—

 _Ned's belly_

—wrapped her arms around his neck—

 _his arms_

—eased him on top of her, opening her legs—

 _his legs_

—and when it was done and he had rolled off her and onto his side, gently pressed her hand over his mouth until they'd both had the chance to catch their breath. "Are you all right?" he murmured into her fingers.

Her expression was uncertain. "Henry," she began, her voice tentative, "if you ever…"

He frowned at her, puzzled. "If I ever what?"

She swallowed convulsively. "If you, um, ever need to think of someone, to have someone in your mind when you're with me, I give you my word I won't mind."

Shame gripped him as he took her in his arms. "Nora, I am so, so sorry," he cried, almost crushing her to his chest. "I didn't mean to cry out anyone's…"

He could feel her shaking her head. "No, no, that's not it. You didn't." She pushed herself away from him and looked up into his face. "Princesses…we are often sent to marry men we don't know and have never seen. My mother told me that if you were too ugly to...I should think of a more handsome man and…" Her face flushed a deep red.

His jaw dropped. "And imagine you were laying with him?!" The secrets women kept from men!

But she wasn't finished. "Catalina said…she said you could only be…inspired by other men. I…I don't understand it, I'm sorry, but I can tolerate if you…if you have someone…and you need to think of…"

 _What benevolence of God has brought this miracle of a woman to me!_ He pulled her into his arms again, rocking her as he formulated the words he wanted to say to her…but in the end he could only kiss her on the forehead and murmur, "Thank you. I promise I will never embarrass you."

He left her about half an hour later with assurances and more thanks, returning to his own chambers via the privy gallery connecting their suites. Thank God for Wolsey: he'd arranged for Henry Norris to be on duty tonight. Had it been one of his Vikings he probably would have been hard-pressed…

 _Well, yes._

But Hal was simply a competent, friendly courtier. "Does Your Majesty wish a bath to be drawn?" he asked as he helped Henry into a clean shirt.

"No, tomorrow morning is fine. Did Sister Angelica accompany the Princess Mary back to Eltham tonight, do you know?"

"There was some rain with the wind, Majesty, so she thought it best not to risk it."

A sensible precaution; no matter how badly Mary had acted at the tournament last month (squealing out loud in the stands!) she was his sister and must be kept safe from chills, especially since according to his will she was his heir until he sired a child…

He suddenly dropped down on the edge of the bed with a gasp.

Norris was immediately at his side. "Majesty?"

The realization sent his belly churning. "I…I could be a father right now, Hal." He stared up into Norris's kind face. "I could've just fathered a child."

The older man grinned. "You very well could have, Majesty; and a son, God willing."

He nodded, outwardly agreeing despite his reservations on the matter. Cata's brother Juan had been tainted too, and he'd only been able to sire a stillborn daughter before his early death. No, Henry would take any healthy child he could get. His old tutor Tom More was certain that women were as intelligent and educable as men; and then there was Isabella of Spain, one of the great generals of Europe. And there was Cata too…and Nora.

He looked up again. "What time is it, Hal?"

"Just after two, Majesty."

Early still. "Then have supper sent up, please: to the Queen as well. She's probably too tired to eat but I don't want to risk her being too nervous to ask."

"A noble thought, Majesty."

As Norris left him he swung his legs up onto the bed and lay back, his hands clasped over his chest, his mind on how he would reward Wolsey for finding him an excellent Queen. The diocese of Bath and Wells was one of the wealthiest in the realm, but its bishop was a dubious absentee Italian cardinal rumoured to have been the late Pope Alexander's pimp. He suspected Pope Julius, whom he knew loathed the man, would be pleased to translate him to a less hospitable diocese – say, Uppsala – and send him to weed his episcopal garden in person.

That letter, however, could wait until morning.

* * *

One of the things I learned while researching this story was that attitudes about homosexuality in the Renaissance weren't anything like what most modern people assume. We often have this idea that sexual minorities were being burned at the stake on every street corner, but that would be slightly misleading.

There was actually quite a dichotomy between what the Church taught on moral and sexual issues and how many believers acted. Persecution for what were deemed sex crimes certainly happened, but the laws were far more commonly used to get rid of political opponents and other inconvenient persons and were also far more likely to target the poor. Homosexuality especially tended to be winked at or ignored within aristocratic and artistic groups; no one dreamed of sending Michelangelo to the stake, for example. Persecution only picked up during the Reformation, when Catholics felt the need to prove that they were just as dedicated to the sanctity of family life as Lutherans despite the doctrine of clerical celibacy. (This is also when it became less common for priests to have mistresses.)

Henry (my fictional Henry, that is) could never be subject to civil justice no matter what; kings were the fount of law and were not answerable to it. The ecclesiastical authorities of the time could have put England under interdict had they wished, but given the weakness of the papacy at this point and the ongoing Italian wars such an act would have been considered foolhardy in the extreme, especially with Julius at the helm.

Naturally individual views on homosexuality tended to be much harsher than today on average, keeping in mind that most people (but not all!) saw the matter as one of actions, not orientation. If a common man were put in the pillory for having been caught with another man he could very well be killed by the mob. But even then there were plenty of people who either sympathized or resolutely turned a blind eye to their neighbours' lives. Nothing was as (cough) straightforward as popular history would have us believe.


	13. Layer under Layer

Palace of Placentia  
26 April 1610

The tantalizing fragrance caressed Wolsey's nose even before he pried open the lid of the rough pine box and brushed away the bran. Voluptuous and sensuous it was: as intoxicating in its own way as the scent of a woman.

Portuguese sweet oranges: the most expensive, most exotic fruit in the world.

One by one he removed the round dimpled globes from the crate, stacking them in a neat pyramid on the right side of his desk. Each one was perfection. The sender, Dom Garcia de Noronha, was a young nobleman in King Manuel's court – His Majesty's distant cousin, in fact – and the owner of half the orange groves in the Algarve. He was also a man more than willing to extend the hand of kindness to a potentially useful courtier in a foreign court.

That hadn't been all the _Dom Diogo_ had brought to England, of course. The first ships back in the spring of 1509 had carried little more than letters from the sentimental Portuguese queen to her sister the Princess of Wales. Maria was more than wealthy enough to afford such an extravagance – he doubted the expense of sending a ship to England every week would scrape the surface of her pin money – but her husband Manuel soon smelled an opportunity for profit. Within a few months the carracks that left Lisbon every Monday were also carrying exceptional luxury goods: fruit of all kinds, the best wines, perfumes, oils, and Indian spices and silks. More importantly, they left London with holds full of grain and dairy products, particularly the tangy Midlands cheeses that had become so popular among Lisbon's smart set over the past year.

English aristocrats might sneer at trade, but the practical Portuguese king had no such qualms.

He'd expected the ships to return home laden with fleeces but he'd found the Portuguese completely uninterested in harsh, long-staple English wool. With little need for warm winter garments, the Portuguese instead favoured the fleece of their own Alentejo breed for clothing – and no wonder, if the cloud-soft sample Dom Garcia sent him last month was a fair representation.

He placed the last orange on his desk and was about to set the box aside when he spotted a flash of purple under the bran. It was a roll of silk, and a suspiciously heavy one at that; he dusted it off and unrolled it to find what was likely the costliest – and ugliest – citrus spoon in existence. Gold-plated silver with a grotesquely moulded handle and set with clashing semi-precious gemstones, the spoon reminded Wolsey vaguely of a poor reproduction of Dürer's _Apocalypse_. Dom Garcia likely had no idea, he thought as he held the utensil up to the light, that the oranges were by far the more valuable of the two gifts…and the more pleasing, at least to Wolsey.

With a sigh he crossed to his plate cupboard and selected a small silver salver with a wide, raised rim, taking it back to the desk and piling a dozen oranges on it. He then dashed off a note and touched the bell on his desk.

Rob Rushton was at the door almost immediately. "Sir?"

He tucked the note in amongst the fruit. "Please take these to Her Majesty, with my compliments. Is George back yet?"

"No, sir."

"Then tell the guard to send him in as soon as he returns."

Once Rushton was gone Wolsey rose to his feet again and picked up one of the remaining oranges, using his knife to pare away the thick peel and the bitter white pith underneath. Layer under layer under layer; no wonder he adored the fruit.

It had been only sheer luck that had found Wolsey and Lord Mountjoy at the Marquess's door these two…no, three years ago. They'd been in Milan on their way to Rome when word came that the Po had overflowed its banks near Piacenza; the Archbishop suggested they avoid the city entirely and instead travel via Verona and Mantua, the adopted home of his dear sister the Marchioness. It was there that they met the large and boisterous Gonzaga family, and it had been there that Wolsey had decided to make Eleonora Gonzaga England's next queen. Demure, beautiful, poised, yet watchful and sophisticated for her age, she seemed suited for greater things than consort to a minor Italian duke. But it wasn't just her own charms – or the outstanding fecundity of her maternal line, for that matter – that had him suggest that the Marquess postpone her betrothal to Urbino; it was the possibility of peace with France.

For far too long, Wolsey thought as he crossed to the window, the English and French had regarded each other as natural enemies. War after ruinous war had emptied treasuries on both sides, and for what? A few acres of Flanders marshland and the bragging rights of kings whose names only lived in the minds of chroniclers and schoolboys. Wolsey meant to change that. The mutual alliances and trade agreements between their respective realms and Mantua should, he hoped, be enough to at least start the peace process. With Sultan Selim on the warpath and the Empire allied with Spain – and soon to become even closer when Charles of Castile held both realms in personal union – the last thing northwestern Europe needed was continuing fragmentation. An alliance with France would act as a bulwark against Imperial hegemony, in time might even lead to peace among all the major Christian powers…and possibly even the recovery of Constantinople.

He turned back toward the door as young George Cavendish entered the room. "How is Joan this morning?"

"Querulous, master," Cavendish replied, rising from his bow, "and asking to return to Bridewell."

He chuckled. 'Querulous' was a very good way of putting it; but then again, his page had a way with words. "And the midwife, what did she have to say?"

"Nothing of import, except…"

"Yes?"

His brow suddenly knit. "She says Mistress Larke hasn't 'dropped' yet so it would be another two weeks at least. She wouldn't tell me what she meant but she said you'd know, master."

Had he ever been so young and innocent? On an impulse he tossed the boy the peeled orange he'd been carrying around. "See what you think. It's just off the boat from Lisbon."

He examined the unfamiliar fruit, then tore apart the segments and popped one in his mouth; his eyes widened as his eyes met his master's.

"Sweet oranges," Wolsey told him, "from southern Portugal. I hear the Princess of Wales gets a box every week from her sister."

"Two boxes," the boy replied after swallowing, "at least in the winter."

"Then I won't send her any. I am however going to send you back to Lewisham this afternoon with some for Joan. Take six…no, eight of them, and don't steal more than one yourself."

Once George had the oranges packed up Wolsey picked up the spoon again. He had first thought to send it with Rob Rushton to the Queen, but Eleanor for all her youth had excellent aesthetic taste and would likely laugh out loud at it. So would Joan, for that matter; the woman hadn't an acquisitive bone in her body, and despite being an innkeeper's daughter she knew quality when she saw it.

Perhaps that was why she loved him.

"I'm trying to think of someone," he finally said, nodding at the spoon, "who would be pleased to receive this. Can you think of anyone?"

The twelve-year-old frowned in thought. "Lady Brandon might like it. She likes fancy stuff."

So she did, Wolsey mused. Anne Brandon hadn't gone to France with her husband, of course; the King would never conscion the exile of a woman great with child, and in truth he'd taken pains to demonstrate that his quarrel with Sir Charles didn't extend to her. That was in fact Henry's greatest weakness: his inability to see women as anything but noble victims requiring the protection of a knight. Some day, he thought, that would come back to bite him.

That said, it wouldn't hurt for Wolsey to spread a little goodwill her way as well. "Then I'll have you wrap it up and take it to her," he said to George. "Is she still at her father's house in Lambeth?"

"She is, master. Will you send a letter?"

"An excellent idea." He took up his pen again, scribbling off a short note. "Take a couple of oranges to her as well, but drop off the ones for Joan first."

"And if Mistress Larke asks about returning to Bridewell?"

"If?" he asked dryly as he reached for the pounce pot. "Feel free to remind her of the plague raging in the city. Also don't forget to tell her not to eat the orange peels. The cook will know what to do with them, but they're not edible raw."

Once the letter was sealed and the boy gone, he picked up another orange and returned to the bow window with his paring knife. His rooms faced into the Inner Court, but from what he could see it was promising to be a fine day, if cooler than the last few weeks; the storms that swept through last night had done little more than dampen down the dust.

Just under his window, somber as a tombstone, stood Sister Angelica, one of the nuns that had been assigned to Princess Mary after her unfortunate outburst – tantrum, to put it bluntly – at the Lenten tournament. The Princess was to return to Eltham this morning; perhaps by Christmastide she would learn some restraint.

He laughed: and perhaps one day he would be Pope.

Also leaving that morning was the Princess of Wales, who was on her way to Portsmouth to inspect the new warships the King had commissioned. The _Mary Rose en Soleil_ and the _Joseph Lion d'Or_ were scheduled to be launched next month; the business had taken so much of Lord Edward Howard's time, King Henry had told the Council, that he hadn't had the opportunity to return to court in weeks to make a full report.

Or at least that was the official story. The Council had of course seen through it, nodding in sad understanding of what they believed was the real reason for Katherine's trip. Not a man at the table didn't feel at least some sympathy for the tragic barren princess forced to witness her intended marry another woman. Not a man at the table didn't think it almost a mercy to send her to Lord Edward, who might be able to take her mind off her blighted destiny with discussions of mainsails and keels.

Wolsey had been hard-pressed not to laugh in their faces, for Katherine was in reality leaping at the opportunity for some private time with her lover away from the fishbowl of court.

Layer under layer under layer the truth hides, like pulp under the peel – or wantonness under a princess's silken skirts.

The Princess Mary suddenly stepped out into the courtyard, distracting him from his thoughts. If she were to go to France...

The question yet again was Calais. It was the jewel in the crown, the most essential of the realm's offshore possessions, the way by which English fleeces reached the markets of Dutch Burgundy. And business was thriving; if the Portuguese didn't want their wool the rest of shivering Europe certainly did. The realm couldn't afford to give it up even if its surrender would guarantee peace.

But France would ask for its return. Picardy needed a port, and French honour (what there was of it) would demand the concession. Or would they? Give them the right to use the port – at a price, of course – and throw a stunningly beautiful princess into the bargain and they might just acquiesce.

He finished peeling the orange then used the knife to ease out a segment, leaving the rest of the round whole. As he'd anticipated the remainder of the orange spread open, leaving a gap wider than the segment he'd removed. And so with Calais; the tiny spit of land would leave a gaping hole in the polity were it ever to be lost. Only a larger acquisition would make the remainder whole.

Scotland, for instance.

He popped the segment into his mouth and bit down.

* * *

Fun fact: Alentejo sheep are the ancestors of the modern Merino, a breed whose fleece is well-loved by designers and hand knitters today.


	14. Noli Me Tangere

Near Croyden, Surrey  
26 April 1510

Catalina breathed in the clean, fresh air of the English countryside as her party travelled across the Great North Wood on their way westward. Every mile further from court, she thought, was a mile closer to freedom.

Their destination that day, Banstead, was the northernmost manor of the honour of Bramber, which had been forfeited to the Crown by the then-imprisoned Duke of Norfolk back in 1485 and given to Catalina by Henry last year. The manor house was an imposing stone affair dating back from before the Cousins' War, and as such it had needed significant repairs before it could be occupied. Now that the work was complete she was eager to visit again; if all was well she intended to make it her home away from court, her sanctum sanctorum, the one place that was truly hers and hers alone.

Well, perhaps not completely alone, she thought, as her eyes strayed briefly to the man riding next to her.

They would remain there for only a week before continuing on to Portsmouth, where she had been asked by Henry to, as he'd so gently put it, 'kick Ned Howard in his big fat arse' over the warships whose construction he was supposedly overseeing. Henry might have been better off sending the Earl of Surrey to wring a progress report out of his negligent brother but she hadn't complained; it was as good an excuse as any for her to get away from the stifling court and allow Eleanor to assume her rightful position as Queen without feeling like she had a rival breathing down her neck. The chance to escape the infuriating looks of pity that had followed her around Placentia like a plague for the past month was merely a bonus.

She might have pitied herself – a bit too much, for that matter – after she was rescued, but any regret she felt at not becoming Queen was for the failure of her mother's dreams, not her own. An English wife had to be strictly chaste, after all, but an English widow could usually take a discreet lover without much comment.

Usually.

She and Eustache had to be a bit more careful than most.

The trail hooked southward, taking them past a glade bounded by a fast-moving brook. "Shall we stop to water the horses and dine?" she asked the lead guard, Tom Clare.

The grizzled old soldier gave the area a once-over with a practised eye. "Seems a safe enough situation, Madame."

They dismounted and, after tethering the horses by the brook and setting up the close tent, the guards took positions around the clearing with their meals and the ale they'd bought at Addiscombe, while Doña Maria and Lady Boleyn unpacked the royal party's dinner: cold roast capon, manchet bread and butter, soft white cheese from the Boleyn manor at Hever, and fresh oranges, all to be washed down with pale Rhenish wine from the leather canteens they'd brought with them.

She sat down with her ladies on the blanket Eustache had spread out, looking up at him with as much disinterest as she could muster for the guards' benefit. "Monsieur, please sit with us and speak the blessing, if you would be so kind."

"I thank you, Your Highness," he replied with a polite bow, taking a place beside Elizabeth Boleyn.

By now, she thought with a look southward to judge the location of the sun, Lady Parr and Father Tunstall should have arrived at Banstead with the servants and carts. Doña Esmeralda had been the only member of her reduced household to remain at court, ostensibly to supervise Juan during her absence and forward any letters that arrived for her. In truth, though, Esmeralda didn't quite approve of Eustache's position in her household but she was far too loyal to abandon her mistress, so she simply chose not to notice what was discreetly happening almost under her nose. It was however far easier to be discreet at court than in the countryside, and Catalina would not for a moment have made her oldest friend uncomfortable by bringing her to a place where she could not keep her head firmly planted in the sand.

It wasn't his presence on progress that would have scandalized her; in fact, guards or not, it was considered highly inappropriate for English ladies to travel without a gentleman attendant who could arrange for accommodations, speak to farriers, wainwrights, or other tradesmen should the need arise, and aid in their defence in case they were targeted by robbers. No, it was at Banstead where Esmeralda would have found his presence uncomfortable, for Catalina would hardly ask him to skulk off to a guest room in the middle of the night in her own home.

She listened to Lady Boleyn's chatter with one ear as she accepted a plate from Doña Maria, her eyes meeting Eustache's for just a moment before he reverently lowered his head and gave the blessing. Only with a struggle was she able to push aside the chills his warm baritone sent down her spine and join in his prayer of thanks to God.

He wasn't a charming man; she wouldn't have been drawn to him if he were. But he was intelligent, well-read, enormously engaging, wise beyond his tender years, and so beautiful that at times she could hardly look at him for fear of her knees buckling. Over the past few months they'd conversed endlessly about everything from Dante's _Comedìa_ to the marketability of the Richborough oyster crop. He'd told her about his upbringing in Annecy, a peaceful little lakeside village in the Savoy Alps; his mother's insistence that he join the Church despite his desire to see the world; and his arrival in England as part of his uncle's embassy. He admitted he'd never had a vocation, had never thought himself particularly suited for the priesthood (or the diplomatic service, for that matter), so when the opportunity presented itself for him to remain in England he'd grasped it eagerly with both hands. She in turn had told him about her own peripatetic childhood, suspended between the unimaginable luxuries of the Alhambra and the austerity and violence of the camp; the moral certitude that had allowed her mother to conquer the Moors and unite Spain; and the embarrassingly stubborn pride she herself had brought to England as Isabella's daughter, a pride that had been scraped off by the tides of fortune.

And if sometimes she saw more than just friendly interest in his deep sapphire eyes…well, she was certain he saw more than that in hers as well.

Things came to a head the third Monday of Lent. They'd had the training barn to themselves that day and had just finished an exercise with wooden swords when a woman's scream suddenly pierced the air. Signore Vadi had immediately grabbed his longsword and run out into the courtyard, but Doña Maria, who was in attendance, had hesitated until Catalina urged her to follow him. 'I'll be fine,' she'd said. 'If the woman's had an accident she'll feel safer if a lady is with her.'

She never fully understood what had driven her to go on the attack as soon as they were alone, but a hasty ' _en garde,_ Monsieur' was all the warning she'd given Eustache; a moment later (or so it seemed) he was pressed flat against the far wall of the barn, pinned by the wooden sword she was holding against his throat.

Their eyes had locked as she'd closed the distance between them and slowly drew the blunt maple blade over his slim neck. Hot breath caressed her cheek as she leaned in, luxuriating in the feel of his hard young body against hers, and whispered into his ear, 'Do you permit?'

He didn't reply, or at least not in words: he'd merely bared his throat to her with a whimper and dropped to his knees, nuzzling her through her skirts as she ran her free hand through his hair with a growl of anticipation.

They'd sprung apart at the sounds of footsteps outside the door, panting in desire and shock as Signore Vadi re-entered the barn with much stomping of boots and clanging of steel. He hadn't been fooled by the polite bows of farewell they exchanged; in retrospect it must have been obvious to him that they'd been on the verge of coupling right on the floor of his barn. But Vadi had politely kept his own counsel as she thanked him and left for the palace, her mind still reeling not just from the encounter but also from the memory of her own boldness. She hadn't merely wanted Eustache; she had wanted to _take_ him, like a bull takes the cow – or a man his wife, she realized with a start. It had seemed so unnatural, so depraved…and so right.

She'd turned to Maria as they crossed the courtyard, desperate to distract herself from the turmoil in her mind, and asked after the woman who'd screamed. 'One of the laundry maids injured her arm in the mangle, Highness,' she'd replied. 'The doctors and the laundry mistress are with her, but they don't think it's too serious.' But as soon as they'd entered the palace Maria reached over and squeezed her hand. 'You're waking up,' she'd whispered with a smile, 'and thank God. But you might want to wait until after Easter.'

Only her strict training had kept her mouth from dropping open. The last thing she'd expected from her prim young friend was encouragement! It was only later that she realized how much those long years of captivity must have affected Maria and her other ladies. She'd been so traumatized by the abuse she'd endured that she'd never even considered that she wasn't the Welsh monster's only victim. She'd begged Maria's and Esmeralda's pardon – and they indeed forgave her freely – but it had been Eustache's steadfast support and good advice that had allowed her to forgive herself.

But Lent was Lent, and she'd indeed waited until Easter Monday to bed him for the first time. Nothing in her life had prepared her for the experience of coupling with him; no one had taught her the words necessary to describe it. Perhaps they hadn't been invented. For the first time since that horrible night seven years earlier she'd felt whole and in command of herself, something she could hardly explain even with his strong body beneath her, his hands guiding her to the touch she craved. Perhaps there was no need to explain; he'd given himself to her freely and with abandon, and as she'd cried out her completion into his muscular shoulder something deep inside her had suddenly begun to heal – something she hadn't even known was broken.

How her mother would grieve her wantonness, how ashamed she would be to find her precious daughter caught in the clutches of lust – for that was how she surely would have interpreted their relationship. From the talk her mother had given her the night before her departure for England, a talk full of mentions of endurance, submission, and pain, it was clear that Isabella saw sex as an uncomfortably onerous duty and not an act of need, desire, or even love. But Mother had always seen the world as a struggle between good and evil, morality and vice, stark white and the darkest black: she had been a great woman but her vision had been necessarily constricted by her even greater destiny. She could never have perceived the greys of the world, but Catalina had no choice but to acknowledge them; she lived in them. Stripped of her pride and her moral certainty, she'd discovered a woman far more like her father than she would ever have realized had her soul not been burned black in the crucible of England.

Perhaps she would never be a good woman according to the laws of society but she could be herself. That would have to suffice, she thought with a faint smile.

Lady Boleyn had at long last left off the topic of her faultless son George and moved to that of her brother, Lord Edward Howard. "Mind you," she was saying, "I'm not surprised Ned hasn't written the King. He was never good with writing; even as a boy he'd get his letters mixed up something fierce, and no amount of beating would ever get him to improve."

"Then why doesn't he just hire a scribe?" Maria asked, but before Elizabeth could answer Eustache was shaking his head.

"Pride, my lady," he said. "No man wishes to admit he is incapable of accomplishing what every man supposedly can. It impinges on his honour."

Lady Boleyn frowned. "And how can a man's honour be affected by an affliction beyond his control, monsieur?"

"I'm afraid many of the conditions that are thought to bring dishonour are similarly beyond the sufferer's influence. A man whose muscles are too weak to raise a lance will never be thought of as highly as one proficient in the joust. Perhaps it does not interfere with his intrinsic honour – his honour as seen by God – but his fellow humans will not be so kind."

"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "Look at what they say about women trapped in battle zones. They call them fallen, dishonoured, and far worse: yet what choice do they have? My children's governess was a girl at Tewksbury, and if you think I would for a moment judge her for what she suffered…"

Catalina carefully placed her plate on the ground and rose to her feet, willing herself not to shake. "If you'll excuse me, ladies: monsieur."

She made her way to the close tent, smiling her thanks at the guards who moved away to give her privacy. Only when the flap was securely fastened behind her did she allow herself the freedom to react – but she found that she was far less upset than she'd anticipated.

Once she'd exited and washed her hands in a basin of icy water from the brook she took a turn around the glade, starting as a dark shape moved in the forest beyond: a roe hind great with fawn, she realized, as she took a closer look.

"Is it collared, Princess?"

"I believe not, monsieur," she replied, sneaking a look up into Eustache's handsome face as he stood beside her. They'd just yesterday been discussing Solinus and his improbable story of stags whose collars had been inscribed with the name of the emperor who'd owned the herd centuries earlier. ' _Noli me tangere, Caesaris sum_ ,' the collars had supposedly read: 'do not touch me, for I am Caesar's.' It was a picturesque scene spoiled only by tiresome questions of where the collars had come from and how the new generations had acquired them.

As Tom Clare brought her horse to her and she swung up into the saddle, she imagined locking a collar around Eustache's elegant neck, proclaiming…but no, it would be too much of a shame to cover that rich golden skin with mere metal. A simple pendant would suffice, for she needed only space for one word, in English: _Mine_.

They turned their horses to the west and continued on their way.


	15. Of Cabbages and Duchesses

Richmond Palace  
11 June 1510

Tom More trotted behind the page down the south gallery to the King's private rooms, wiping the last cobwebs of sleep out of his eyes as a waning half moon peeked through the dawn-painted clouds outside the high windows.

He wasn't completely surprised by the early summons. Harry had rousted him out of bed before dawn at least once a week during the years he'd spent as his off-and-on tutor, back before Prince Arthur's death in '02. The inquisitive young boy had been eager to learn more about the animals he could hear rustling outside his window and the stars he could only see as blurry splotches of light, but more than that he'd always been a ridiculously early riser – still was, apparently.

Tom had to wonder, though, why the King had sent for him. He'd come to Richmond to help sort out a tangled knot of claims relating to the freehold of Liverpool that had proved beyond the expertise of the young royal solicitor, Anthony Pace. It wasn't a subject that would normally lead to a summons ten minutes after the Lauds bell, he thought, but he supposed he'd find out soon enough.

He entered the King's study, rising from his greeting to find Harry grinning at him from behind an enormous set of hinged wooden spectacles. "I've been out early," he said, dismissing the page as he lowered the eyeglasses and wrapped a bony arm around Tom's shoulders. "Come walk with me."

They made their way through the Privy Garden and into the South Lawn just as the Sun rose above the horizon, ethereal pink light dappling the backs of the sheep placidly cropping the grass. It was one of the few places at Richmond where the King could meet with someone without risking the chance of being overheard, which told him that Harry had a matter of some delicacy on his mind.

But his first words threw Tom for a loop. "I'd always imagined they were flat as a sheet of paper."

"They…what, sir?"

"Butterflies, Tom." He'd stopped under one of the great oak trees and was peering through the spectacles at a brilliant insect clinging to the bark over his head. "Do you see him?"

He stretched up and took a closer look; luckily he was quite tall himself. "They call that kind a peacock, I believe."

"Fitting name." Harry lowered his hand with a sigh, folding the contraption into the palm of his hand as he led Tom down the footpath toward the Queen's privy gardens. "I've seen drawings of them; Mary used to scribble them on everything when she was little. I just hadn't known what they looked like in the wild until this morning. I've looked at butterflies, the Man in the Moon – or at least part of him – the stars, even the Pleiades before the clouds rolled in. I only wish I'd had a pair years ago; I might have known what you were talking about during those astronomy lectures of yours."

Tom smiled, pushing away a fat, black-faced wether with a tag in his ear who seemed intent on joining them on their walk. "I advised your father to send to Italy but he said you didn't need to see the stars to be a bishop."

Which was true as far as it went. There'd been a time when the old King had expressed nothing worse than benign disinterest in his second son's lack of physicality, poor eyesight, and love of study, because he'd intended the boy for the Church or even the Vatican. It was only after Tom had left royal service – after Queen Elizabeth's death, to be precise – that the neglect had inexplicably turned to hatred. Archbishop Warham had come to Bucklersbury one morning back in '08 asking for his help in setting the King's heart aright, but old King Henry had rewarded his pleas with nothing more than an impatient snarl and a vague threat to have his family life investigated for 'corruption' if he didn't leave off. It had puzzled him…puzzled him still, for that matter.

But perhaps it was better to let go of the past. "Are the spectacles from Italy?" he asked as the path took them alongside the Queen's privy gardens.

"The maker is; he arrived from Ferrara last month at Nora's request. Now that I've seen his work I've given him a license to set up business in London. Perhaps I won't be the only man in England eager to see the world as it really is."

"I'm sure many men will flock to him, sir, and women as well. They're a marvellous invention."

Harry suddenly smiled. "Yet marvellous as they are, Mr. More, they're only the second best gift Nora's presented me with this week."

It took him a few seconds to realize what the King meant. "The Queen is with child?"

"Her midwife says she's due in the New Year."

"Congratulations!" he cried. "Such excellent news! I trust Her Highness is well?"

"Well, but tired and a bit…nervous, I'd guess you'd say. In fact, that's why I summoned you so early. Nora's been…"

The wether suddenly made another attempt to come between them. "Go away, Rollie," Harry laughed, giving the sheep a gentle shove on the rump toward the rest of the herd.

"I see you continue to be beloved by all animals," Tom remarked.

"He likes to walk with me of a morning. I can't say I mind; he gives me better counsel than half the bishops in England and has fewer bastards to his credit than the other half. You've heard about Wolsey? Three days in purple and he brings forth a son. One has to admire that level of efficiency."

"Jo and I were at the christening, sir. Bastard or not, a healthy child is a gift from God."

"Amen to that. I only hope…" He heaved a sigh. "it's Nora, Tom. She…she's worried about Catalina."

He looked up at Harry, perplexed. "I thought they got along very well."

"Oh, they do; it's not anything about Cata herself. It's…the problem is that Nora says the Italian states don't understand the 'dowager' style, and she's afraid they'll be confused if they hear there's both a Prince and a Princess of Wales. I'd like to reassure her…if she's upset…" And he shrugged, his expression a picture of fond anxiety.

Tom didn't know at the moment which was worse; the nerves of breeding women or the fears of their husbands that the slightest upset might mean disaster. "I don't believe," he said after a moment's consideration, "that Her Highness is legally permitted to renounce the style, nor can it be taken from her. It could however be superseded."

Harry stopped and turned to him. "By what?"

"By a title of her own, sir."

"A title? For a woman?"

"It's been done before," Tom replied. "You'd have to issue letters patent rather than a writ of summons, but there's nothing forbidding it. Do you believe that would calm the Queen?"

"I can't see why not," he murmured. "I'll check with her once she rises. Someone should ask Cata in person as well. She's just down at Banstead; it's not even two hours away."

And this, Tom realized, was why he'd been woken up at ten past three in the morning: to do Harry's dirty work. "I could go right now if you'd like," he said, mustering up as much enthusiasm for the task as he was able to, "but I suspect Her Highness would prefer to know exactly what she's being offered before she agrees. She'd likely find a barony below her dignity."

"You're right, and it would be. It'll have to be a dukedom, but which one…" He ran a hand through his hair, blowing out a breath as he pondered the matter. "I'm not sure. I have to decide on at least thirty new peers this morning anyway – the writs of summons go out next week for Parliament."

"Thirty, sir? That's quite a few."

"It can't be helped," he said with a resigned shrug. "The Lords is half the size it was in the time of Henry Monmouth; if I don't raise new peers I run the risk of its power becoming concentrated in too few hands. I don't need Norfolk and Buckingham thinking they run the country. Luckily most of the men I intend to raise are already wealthy enough to support the dignity of a barony without any additional endowment, and the rest," and with that he winked for some reason, "are well worth a few manors."

They re-entered the office, where one of Harry's tall, blond grooms was standing by the door. "Has Dr. Ruthall arrived yet, Paul?" the King asked him.

"No, Your Majesty," the young man replied smoothly as he rose from his bow. "His Grace is scheduled to arrive after early Mass. Shall I have him summoned?"

He shook his head. "Let him sleep, but bring me the blank writs; I might as well start…"

Tom waited near the French doors, watching the interaction between King and groom. It had apparently been Wolsey's idea to staff the Privy Chamber with tall blond men as a reminder of England's warrior past and, as Tom privately suspected, to obscure Harry's own Welsh and French ancestry. Blond hair, after all, was a trait of the English race; even Tom himself hadn't turned dark until his twenties. But he could also see that having young men serving in the Chamber was beneficial not just to them and their families but to Harry as well, as the looks he was sharing with his groom were far more friendly than kingly. It was a relief to see that he could relate to men his own age and not just his elders; after all, he wouldn't be eighteen forever.

Just then he noticed a blur of movement out of the corner of his eye, just outside the doors; it was the wether again, staring into the room through one of the diamond panes. His amused chuckle caught the King's ear; he turned and burst out laughing. "I suppose I'll have to spend some time with the old boy before I start work. You have to wonder who or what he thinks I am. Paul, see Mr. More back to his rooms if you will, then bring out the writs when you come back."

They made their bows and departed; as the door closed behind them, their eyes met in shared amusement. "I can't say that I've ever heard of a king with a pet wether," Tom said. "I suppose the tag is to let the shepherds know…?"

"He's a wool sheep so he wouldn't end up on a plate anyway," Paul replied, "but His Majesty's a good master; no one would want to cause him any distress."

They reached the end of the gallery and entered the west corridor, stopping in front of the door to Tom's rooms. "His Majesty mentioned he would be sending for you later this morning; I'll let Sir William know as soon as he awakes. Is there, um, anything else I can do for you, sir?"

He shook his head. "Thank you, but no; I think I'll try to get some sleep."

 _Pleasant fellow_ , he thought as he closed the door and stripped off his outer clothing. He'd found himself impressed by the servants he'd met over the last day; even Mr. Pace was a competent lawyer despite his youthful inexperience…

The next thing he knew Will Compton was shaking him awake. "Up and at 'em, More!"

He grumbled incoherently, swatting the man's hand away.

"It's ten-thirty," Compton said in entirely too loud a voice less than six inches from his right ear. "I had a page bring you a fresh shirt and some water to wash and shave. You can't visit a princess looking like that."

"My wife doesn't mind."

"Your wife doesn't have a choice." He nodded at the page, who carried a tray heaped with food over to the bedside table. "She also isn't the daughter of Isabella the Catholic. I have it on excellent authority that Her Highness bathes twice daily."

Tom dragged himself out of the bed and crossed to the washbasin, darting a glare at Compton, who was draped across one of the chairs near the door munching on an early apricot. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all!" he replied. "I'm just making sure you're fit for purpose. You have a reputation, Mr. More, and not just for legal brilliance. I'm surprised your lady stepmother doesn't ride your arse over your cuffs and collar."

"I'll have you know the senior Mistress More is a mild lady of excellent virtue – although she's not strictly senior, I suppose." He wrung out a towel in the hot, soapy water and began to wash his body, chagrined that his less…tidy habits had been noticed. "She and Jo are the same age, and in fact both have expectations in the New Year."

"Like the Queen; no wonder Harry's sending you to Katherine. Congratulations, by the way, if that's the right word. The two of them must fight like hellcats."

He chuckled. "Surprisingly not; they're as close as sisters. It's my father and brother who are always at odds."

"Over what?"

"John's lack of ambition, mainly, and his unwillingness to marry. Have you ever known a man who would rather tally up tables of figures than court a lady?"

"By 'court' I suppose you mean…"

"I mean court, Will. I can't deny he's good with numbers – I think he understands Pacioli better than Pacioli himself – but he doesn't seem to have any interest in the fair sex, or in anything illicit for that matter." He lathered up his face and began to scrape away his beard. How long had it been, he wondered, since he'd last shaved…

Compton popped a grape into his mouth, watching Tom disinterestedly. "Maybe John should come to court," he said after a few minutes. "We can always use more dedicated clerks. How old is he?"

"A couple of years younger than me, so…thirty, I guess."

"Then he wouldn't make it as a Viking," he mused, snorting a laugh at Tom's puzzled glare. "You could have if you were fifteen years younger. You even had the long blond hair back then, when you tutored Harry and the other kids."

"I suppose." He splashed water on his face and rubbed himself dry with a towel, then held out his hands for inspection. "I presume I pass muster?"

"You'll do." He gestured again to the page, who brought over a pile of clean clothing. "By the way, it rained while you were asleep but the sky cleared about an hour ago; you won't need a cloak but it might be muddy underfoot. And talking about younger brothers…"

He looked up as he pulled on the clean hose. "He's settled on Somerset, then?"

"He didn't want to give the title to a son, he said, not after what happened to his baby brother. You were there, weren't you?"

"At Prince Edmund's death?" he asked. "I was; it was awful. One minute the lad was a happy gurgling toddler, the next minute he was lying in Harry's arms covered in welts and gasping for breath. And all because the nurse hadn't ground up the almonds in his pap finely enough – or so the doctor said. I suppose the name's off the table too."

"I wouldn't know; nothing's been said. Harry mentioned you were at the Wolsey christening. How was it?"

They discussed the event and a few other matters as Tom finished dressing and wolfed down what remained of his dinner. "Is it my imagination," he asked Compton, "or is the food at court unusually edible these days?"

"If it isn't we're all delusional. One thing you can say about the Italians: they're more civilized than us wild Saxons. Better food, better wine…we even have two new painters at court: the Vecelli brothers. One of them is painting the Queen this week."

They rose, Compton unshouldering a leather pouch and passing it to Tom. "A draft of the letters patent, as well as letters from the King and Queen," he said. "For what it's worth, Her Highness is truly concerned by the naming issue, and just as worried that Katherine will take it the wrong way."

"I'm sure the Princess will understand," he said, clasping Compton's hand before leaving him.

It was only when he reached the ground floor that he noticed the young page who'd assisted Compton was trailing him. "Young man, I do know where the stables are."

"Sir William ordered me to go with you to Banstead, sir," he said. "The King didn't want you falling off your horse in the middle of nowhere and not being found."

He might have taken umbrage at the insult if it hadn't been for the look of earnest anticipation on the boy's face; despite his dark hair he was so sallow that Tom could well believe he hadn't been out of the palace in weeks. "Then if it's His Majesty's wish, I suppose we had better obey."

It was a cool enough day that neither they nor the horses found it a hardship to make the trip without stopping at Malden. He chatted with the boy, who rejoiced in the name of Ethelred Sugg, and discovered he'd been brought to court by his aunt's husband, Brian Tuke, the steward of Westminster Palace and one of the few functionaries to have kept his place after Harry's accession. "I could have stayed with Aunt Grissell in Stepney," he told Tom, "but she's a bit…"

"Strict?"

The boy smiled at the euphemism, clearly relieved not to have to tell a fib. "Yes, sir."

"And you enjoy the work?" he asked. "I assume you accompany the King around court regularly, to meetings and such?"

His chin suddenly jutted out as if he'd been grievously insulted. "Sir, I'm not permitted to say anything about—"

"Of course not," he cut in, smiling at the boy to show his approval. "His Majesty will be pleased to learn you're not prone to spreading gossip."

"Thank you, sir." Young Sugg's face fairly shone with pride.

Banstead was a pleasant enough place for a country house, Tom thought as they pulled into the courtyard and dismounted. The house was built of yellow stone and sat just south of the village, a small formal garden separating it from the Norman parish church, while beyond it lay a vast expanse of arable land planted with lettuce, peas, cabbage, and parsnip intended, no doubt, for the markets of Epsom or perhaps London itself. He could see a small field of grain immediately to the west – the home farm, he suspected – and an area of pasture in the dale to the east. The house showed signs of recent repair, and if he wasn't far wrong plans were already underway to add an ell and a greenhouse to the existing structure.

A trio of small boys suddenly dashed in front of them through the courtyard on their way to the garden, followed by (he assumed) their tutor and a groom; a quick nod to Ethelred and he was chasing after them. What he would give to be eleven years old on a summer's day, Tom thought as he watched the boy disappear behind a thicket; for just an instant he imagined following them, splashing in the brook, running down a hare…

Maud Parr greeted him at the door. "Her Highness is otherwise engaged at the moment," she said, "but she shouldn't be long. Might I offer you some refreshment, Mister…"

"Thomas More, my lady," he said with a bow. "And thank you."

She nodded to the maid. "May I tell Her Highness what this is in regard to? I know the Duke of Norfolk was planning to send a man regarding the Sutton estate, but—"

"I actually come directly from His Majesty this afternoon," he interrupted, "on a matter of some delicacy."

Her eyes suddenly sharpened. "You mean…"

"I bring news that the Queen is with child."

She beamed. "God be praised! The Princess will be overjoyed, although…" She glanced at the stairwell leading up to the first floor, her mouth suddenly pursed in concern.

"There is another matter," he added, "which I have been directed to raise with Her Highness in respect of the happy tidings. Perhaps it would be wise if you broke the news of the child privately to her; that way…"

"She could compose herself before coming down to meet with you," she said. "Quite wise. How are the royal couple, if I may ask?"

"The King is hale and hearty, if somewhat nervous over his impending fatherhood. I didn't have the opportunity to speak with the Queen personally but His Majesty assures me she's also well."

It was less than half an hour before the Princess arrived downstairs to greet him. He had to admire her composure; if he hadn't known how upset she must be at having the Queen's fecundity paraded under her nose he would have thought her as pleased by the news as the King himself. "Your Highness," he said as he rose from his bow, "I bring news from His Majesty at Richmond."

"And most excellent news, or so I've been told. When is Her Highness due, or have the midwives said?"

"In the new year, Madam."

"Then I will have prayers said for the Queen's health in my private chapel three times a day until the formal announcement is made. But Maud said there was something else His Majesty wanted."

"Yes, Madam." He explained Eleanor's concerns to her; by the time he'd finished she was nodding her head in agreement.

"I must confess I'm far from attached to the style," she admitted, "and I do understand her position. Does His Majesty wish me to revert to the style of Princess of Aragon?"

"Unfortunately, Madam, that's not possible. Under English law a widow must use her husband's style until she either remarries or obtains a new style or title of her own. Given that the provisions of Magna Carta prevent the King from forcing you to remarry…"

"It must be the latter," she finished for him. "What am I to be given, then?"

"His Majesty has suggested he grant you the dukedom of Somerset, with additional lands to maintain your dignity."

"Edmund's title." She pressed her lips together. "Yes, I can see why he wouldn't want that to go to a son. Have the letters patent been drafted?"

"I bear a preliminary copy, Madam, for your approval," he said, handing her the documents he'd carried from Richmond, "as well as notes from His Majesty and Her Highness."

She took them to her escritoire, breaking the seal on the draft letters patent and unrolling the parchment. A moment later she looked up at him, her brow knit. "Mr. More…"

"Madam?"

"It says that the remainder is to 'lawful heirs of the body'. I suppose it's academic, but shouldn't it be heirs male?"

"Either is legally acceptable, Madam. His Majesty didn't discuss the terms with me, but perhaps he anticipates that if you were to marry and bear a daughter as your only child, she could still inherit."

"That's kind of him, if almost certainly unnecessary. Could you tell me, though: would anything happen to the title were I to marry?"

That he could answer with confidence. "Under the current law, your husband could choose to assume the title _jus uxoris_ and take control of your property. Unfortunately, that would mean that he could retain the title or even pass it on to his heirs by a future wife if the marriage were annulled or if you were to predecease him without leaving an heir. His Majesty is however planning to introduce a bill in the upcoming session of Parliament to ensure that the property of peeresses in their own right remains in their original family. From what I've heard the lords are supportive of the change; they don't like the idea of their titles and lands going to the descendant of some fortune hunter."

"A sensible idea indeed, Mr. More." She sat back, tapping the parchment with a fingernail, and pondered the matter before speaking again. "You may tell His Majesty that I accept his proposal, and you may tell Her Highness that I rejoice with her. In fact, if you'd give me a moment to read and reply to their letters…"

"Of course, Madam. I—"

Just then the door opened to admit the young man he'd seen earlier with the boys. "Your Highness."

Katherine rose to her feet, her face instantly lighting up with joy. "Mr. More, may I present Monsieur Eustache Chapuys, my Master of the Horse. Eustache, this is Mr. Thomas More. He was the King's childhood tutor at Eltham; he's just come from Richmond with a message from His Majesty."

The young man bowed. "Your servant, sir," he said in curiously accented French. "I've actually come to advise you that your boy fell into the river while he was playing with Lord Richmond and his friends. He's in the kitchen drying off next to the fire."

He laughed; so much for courtly decorum. "Master Sugg is actually one of the King's pages. He's been cooped up in the palace for so long I'm not surprised he took the opportunity to run a bit wild. I take it he isn't hurt?"

"A healthy boy that age can handle a great deal more than a tumble off a riverbank, Monsieur," Chapuys assured him. "His livery is a lost cause, I'm afraid; if you'd like, we could lend him some clothing for the trip back."

"Unless you'd rather stay at Banstead overnight and leave in the morning," Katherine suggested, concern clouding her face. "I would hardly wish the boy to catch cold."

"In truth, Madam, I'm expected back at Richmond this afternoon. I'll delay my journey for an hour to let him recover, though, with your permission."

But she was adamant. "If you must depart this afternoon, I must insist that he stay here. I couldn't bear to face his mother were he to develop a fever on the road after becoming chilled. We'll send him back with a groom tomorrow if he remains well."

This, he realized, was a battle he was destined to lose. "Very well, Madam. I'll wait for your replies, then."

They made their bows and exited back out into the Great Hall, where Chapuys poured them wine. "I take it that the King and Queen are well?" he asked More as he handed a cup to him.

"Very well, and they'll be pleased to learn that Her Highness appears to have recovered her health. Is she still practicing defence?"

The man's expression was positively dreamy. "She has an immense amount of natural talent, sir, and the persistence and discipline necessary to master the art. I would not wish to face Catrine – I mean Her Highness, of course – on the battlefield."

More held back a snicker. So that was how the land lay: 'Master of Horse' indeed. He wondered if Harry had any idea…

Chapuys's voice cut into his thoughts. "Would you know by any chance if Monsieur de Doussard is still at Richmond? I only ask because I have a letter I'd like to send through him to my mother."

"Duke Charles's envoy? I saw him this morning. Are you from Savoy, then?"

"Annecy, yes. It's nothing much, just a note to let her know I'm well."

"I'd be pleased to pass it on. She must miss you a great deal."

He barked a laugh. "To be honest, Monsieur…"

"Tom."

He nodded his thanks. "Tom: and I am Eustache. To be honest, she's not particularly happy to find me here. She intended me for the Church but…"

"But you had no vocation?" That, Tom thought, was as obvious as the Sun rising in the east.

"I know it sounds naïve," Chapuys said, "perhaps even blasphemous, but I don't believe a man should be ordained unless he has a true vocation. It's not the way of the world, of course, but to my mind the man who serves God without one will always be susceptible to corruption."

"I couldn't agree more," he replied, thinking of Wolsey. "Too many men see the Church as a cash cow rather than a calling. Were you at Turin, by any chance?"

"For two years. Which reminds me: I should send a note to Fra Pietrangelo as well."

They turned to acknowledge one of the Princess's Spanish ladies, who had just entered from the courtyard. "Will you be staying for supper, Mr. More?" she asked after they'd been introduced.

"I regret I must return almost immediately, Doña Maria; I'm just waiting for letters from Her Highness. Master Sugg will however be staying the night. I trust he's recovering from his adventure?"

She grinned. "To be sure. Lord Richmond and Master Percy are with him."

"Rehashing the event, no doubt," Chapuys said, putting down his cup. "I should speak with the Princess's chamberlain about finding a bed for the boy. If you'll excuse me."

Katherine joined them shortly afterward, letters in hand. "Thank you, Mr. More. Again, please pass on my warmest regard to His Majesty and Her Highness."

He bowed. "I would be honoured to, Madam."

Chapuys caught up to him in the courtyard with his own correspondence. "They're unsealed, in case…well, I'm sure Monsieur de Doussard has wax to spare."

They shared a smile, both of them understanding the truth of the matter; as a foreign resident Chapuys knew his letters would be opened and read before they left the realm, so why bother sealing them in advance? "Please reassure young Ethelred that I won't let on," Tom said. "Boys don't need to be punished for a little honest exuberance."

"On that we also concur."

The trip back to Richmond flew by; before he knew it he was back in the King's study, where Harry was overseeing the production of the writs of summons by his secretary and clerks. "She agreed?"

"Without hesitation, sir. In fact, she seemed overjoyed by the news and more than willing to accede to your request."

"What a woman," he murmured, shaking his head as he took the letters from Tom. "If my thrice-damned bastard of a father had only possessed the common decency…but I suppose that's neither here nor there; things are more than well enough as they are. How is she?"

"Healthy and strong, sir," he replied, catching Harry's eye and nodding almost imperceptibly toward the French doors.

The King caught Tom's meaning immediately. "Did I show you where I'm going to put the new greenhouse?" he asked. "Nora isn't used to our cold-weather vegetables, so I thought we could grow Roman beans, Savoy cabbages, and the like. Come on: it's just beyond the lawn."

They exited to the garden, Harry pausing for a second to scoop up a document from the side table. "I take it from your expression that you've met Monsieur Chapuys," he said as they reached the lawn.

More stared at him in shock. "You knew?"

"Why do you think I'm bringing that bill into Parliament?" he asked. "It might be popular with the lords whose titles can be inherited by a daughter but Cata's the one I'm really worried about. Not that I know anything bad about him; he seems perfectly innocuous, and my agents haven't found anything more suspicious in his past than an ambitious mother and a pompous windbag of an uncle. Then again, he isn't old enough to have much of a history; he's the same age as me, to the very day."

Which, he had to admit, was a strange coincidence. "For what it's worth, sir, he seemed to me a thoughtful and intelligent young man with a good foundation of common sense."

"And Cata? Do you think she feels the same about him, that he's 'thoughtful'?"

"From the little I saw, I'd warrant she's as in love with him as woman ever was, and he with her in return."

He heaved a sigh of relief. "That takes an enormous burden of worry off my shoulders, Tom; thank you. Marriage without love…" He pressed his lips together. "Nora's the best of women, don't get me wrong; I thank God every day that she sits beside me, and I don't know what I would do without her. I only wish…"

Tom's heart sank; he'd been so sure Harry had met his soulmate. "I'm sorry," he said, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Is there someone—"

"Not anyone I could ever…no. I, um…" He stopped and handed Tom the document in his hands, his face pink. "This is for you. Go ahead; read it."

He took the paper, wondering faintly if Harry had conceived an amour for one of the married ladies of the court, and broke open the seal, gasping as his eyes flew over the words. "Harry…my God."

It was a writ of summons calling Master Thomas More of Bucklersbury, London to Parliament – as a baron.

He stared up at the King, trying to find the words to express…but he was poleaxed. "I…I…"

Harry was clearly enjoying the spectacle. "I'm knighting your father as well," he said. "Wouldn't want your mild and kind stepmother to feel left out, would we?"

"I…I can only thank you and express my unworthiness…."

"You can thank me," Harry said, "with more of your honesty and hard work. I know you were looking forward to standing for the Commons but I already have enough intelligent men in the lower house; I need at least one in the Lords."

He nodded. "I'll do my best, Your Majesty."

"I have no doubt. Now I'm sure you'd like to send a message to your lady wife about the summons and the lands I'm deeding you to support your dignity, so I'll let you get to it. We'll tackle the Liverpool matter tomorrow morning."

He bowed and made to return to the palace when the King called to him again. "Oh, and Tom?"

"Yes, Harry?"

He smiled. "Thank you…my lord."

He bowed again and returned to the palace, wiping away the tears he couldn't hold back.


	16. A Hint of Malachite

2 July 1510  
Windsor Palace

Tiziano Vecelli was a portrait painter; that is to say, he was a patient man.

Young Bellini, his master in Venice – who at eighty was only 'young' in relation to his recently deceased brother – had sent him to England specifically because he possessed the forbearance necessary to work with aristocrats. Venice judged a man's fitness for office by his purse, but in England a man's ancestry or, rarely, his usefulness, was his ticket to greatness. But in neither country would a great man arrange his schedule to suit the needs of an artist; no, it was the artist who would be expected to wait.

And wait.

This would be his second portrait of a member of the English royal family. The first, of the young Italian Queen whose mother had arranged with Maestro Bellini to send him here, was almost finished; only a few details of the girl's jewels had yet to be added, and that only because they were in the process of being reset. But this one: this portrait would make or break him. If successful it would be seen by more people – more influential people with the money to engage a painter – than any other. It would be copied and studied down to the brushstroke. It could influence an entire nation of artists in the way that a portrait of a random condottiere, poet, or patrician never could.

A commotion from the hallway had him on his feet before the door handle moved. As the young man whose portrait he was to paint entered the room Tiziano bowed deeply – the servility these people expected! – and took up one of his brushes. The English, the Queen had told him, liked a man who came prepared to do his job.

"Signore Vecelli, I thank you for your patience," the young man said in excellent academic Italian as half a dozen toadies and servants crowded behind him into the chamber. "Today's Council meeting lasted longer than we had anticipated. Shall we…?"

"Of course, Your Majesty." He indicated the chair he'd set to the right of the deep north window.

England was a northern land – as far north, his brother Francesco asserted, as Burgundy – and consequently the light even in high summer was weaker than on the shores of the Adriatic. Tiziano didn't see that as a drawback; an artist, after all, should not fight God's handiwork but adapt to it. The brilliant Mediterranean blues were out of place in a land surrounded by North Atlantic waters so pale they appeared grey at times, while the rich southern reds so reminiscent of Italian wine and Italian soil clashed with the golden ale and green forests of England. It was the clarity of the English complexion, though, that most affected the palette he'd formulated in his time here; the luminous pale skin free of cool olive undertones was as much a characteristic of England as the cliffs of the Kent downs.

He examined the king's smooth face, moving the candelabrum forward a few inches so the fill light was at the correct angle. "If Your Majesty would be so kind as to raise your chin…yes, sir, just like that. And your right hand, just so…"

It was fortunate for him, he mused, that the king's complexion differed from his wife's only in intensity and would require only a small adjustment to the palette he'd used on her portrait. It perhaps wasn't as convenient for the Queen herself, as the similarity would naturally complicate the acquisition of a lover whose colouring would not stand out on the face of a child. Then again, half of England seemed to be graced with red hair, so perhaps Her Highness would not find herself too inconvenienced when the time came.

And it would be soon, if the king were as great a _feno_ as he suspected.

He dabbed his brush into the neutral shade of paint he preferred to use for his preliminary sketches and began on the round jawline, the king's hangers-on watching his progress closely. One, a broad-shouldered man whose drooping moustache and shaggy beard failed to conceal his bloated face, was swaggering behind him bellowing in English. He could tell the king was not entirely comfortable with whatever the man was saying; his brows were beginning to draw together just a touch and his small, thin-lipped mouth was pursing. So a friend, perhaps an old one given the tolerance of his lack of respect, who had no idea he was quickly wearing out his welcome.

The broad outlines of the lower face complete, he selected a finer brush to mark the deep cleft in the chin. It was a remarkably Italian feature in such a quintessentially Northern face, its discordance lending piquancy to what would otherwise be a fairly insipid countenance. Enrico was only nineteen and had yet to develop any of the signs of experience men accumulated over the years; even his habit of squinting hadn't yet left its mark around his eyes. Perhaps the eyeglasses he cupped in one hand – a masterful allegory, he had to admit, and one he would never have had the courage to suggest himself for fear of being misunderstood – would delay their formation.

He stepped back from the canvas, almost colliding with another of the king's men who had been unobtrusively watching his progress. The gentleman – for his careless attire and noble bearing were clearly marks of a born aristocrat – was tall and swarthy with low, bushy brows and a remarkable nose. "Forgive me, signore," the man said with a dip of his head, his accent remarkably similar to the king's; a classmate? Perhaps a governor, given the difference in age.

He bowed. "My lord."

"What did I tell you, Tom?" the king suddenly exclaimed. "Even Signore Vecelli sees it." He shifted his gaze to Tiziano's, not moving otherwise. "My Lord More doubts his suitability as a peer of our realm, Signore. He's nearly the only one who does; isn't that right, Charles?"

The blusterer grumbled in English again, showing that he understood Italian well enough even though he chose not to speak it. Not an aristocrat, then; a true nobleman would not play games in such a manner, nor would he resent the rise of a clearly worthy man.

He reloaded his brush, but before he could lift it back to the canvas the king had risen to his feet and was staring his old friend down. Transformed in an instant from a boy to a man, from an easy-going friend to a king – no, a King with a capital K – he spoke to the swaggerer in a clear, low voice, his meaning needing no translation.

And what good luck for Tiziano to have witnessed the change. What force of brow, what glint of eye, what carriage of head! He quickly began to amend the features he'd just sketched out as the blusterer bowed and left the room.

Another of the hangers-on, a short and ruddy courtier with a deeply pockmarked face, let out a low chuckle after the door had slammed shut. "You'd think a man so worried about his wife would be champing at the bit for news of her," he said in passable French as he leaned back against the wall. "Is he hoping she dies?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," the King said under his breath, settling back into his original pose. "Is this good, Signore?"

Tiziano glanced up. "Perfect, Your Majesty." And it was: rare indeed was the subject who could return to almost the identical pose without direction.

"I wonder if you understood Sir Charles Brandon's comments toward yourself," the King continued in French. "I wouldn't bring it up except that he mentioned hiring you to paint his portrait."

"I don't yet speak English, sir, but I understood the word 'peasant', which I refuse to take as an insult. Certainly my family is hardly as exalted as his must be…"

"Ah, in that I fear you are wrong," he broke in, his eyes twinkling. "In fact you might have the advantage of him, as I understand from my gracious Queen that you are a member of the Venetian gentry."

He shrugged. "My family have been councillors and notaries in the Dolomiti for seven hundred years, sir. Whether that qualifies us as gentle I do not know."

"A family of notaries from the Alps?" the courtier remarked. "Perhaps he should paint the Duchess of Somerset next."

"Let's not introduce them quite yet," the King said, holding up a hand as the courtier and Lord More laughed. "I don't think my heart could take it."

Not understanding the joke, Tiziano concentrated on the changes he was making, wanting to get the King's moment of anger down on canvas before the details escaped him. The courtier must be a mercenary, he decided, or at least he had the same mindset: never stand when you could lean, never lean when you can sit, never sit when you can sleep. There was clearly no intention of disrespect in his casual stance or words, nor did the King take umbrage at them.

"Would you do me a favour, Will?" the King suddenly asked the man. "Could you check on Lady Brandon yourself and make sure she's being cared for properly?"

"I was there yesterday, sir; took de Victoria with me too. I didn't think you'd mind."

"No, I was going to ask you to take him." His lips thinned. "That bad, then."

"When isn't it? You were just lucky you didn't lose your girlish complexion like I did back in '07."

The King barked a mirthless laugh. "Will Compton, girlish? And I remind you I almost died; everyone knows pockmarks are a sign of the less lethal form. I assume that's the case in Italy as well, Signore Vecelli?"

He looked up. "With the smallpox? Most assuredly, Your Majesty. The good Lord is fair; he who suffers the most in the beginning suffers the least afterwards." If he survives, he added silently.

"It's still damned unlucky for Anne," Compton muttered. "They've moved the baby to the house in Chelsea; she seems out of danger, at least."

Lord More crossed himself. "Praise God."

The three men continued to discuss the plight of the dying Lady Brandon and her newborn daughter as Tiziano finished his outline of the King's shoulders and arms and began on the long, slender hands. The clothing he'd add in later, possibly with one of the King's _bardassi_ acting as a stand-in. It was a hardship of sorts to be faced with a subject almost seven English feet tall but fudging the matter was easy enough; much like a king's, a painter's popularity often depended on how skilfully he could obscure the truth.

"So, Tom," the King said, turning back to Lord More, "on a happier note, tell us: what's it like living with two breeding women? I don't see any extra wrinkles…yet."

He grinned. "They get along famously, sir, as you well know. My lady wife is taking her condition…philosophically, I'd say; this will be Jo's fifth child, God willing. My lady stepmother, on the other hand..."

Tiziano listened with one ear as he returned to the King's face and began on the eyes. Green eyes usually contained more variation of hue and tone than brown or blue, and in fact the word 'green' was often used to describe blue eyes with amber inclusions. But these eyes were intensely green, so much so that he decided to start with the malachite he'd mixed earlier and later apply a resinate glaze to bring up the shine; _terra verde_ was far too desaturated for his needs.

He'd almost finished the first layer of the eyes when he noticed that the courtier, Will Compton, had taken a piece of fruit from one of the bowls scattered around the room and was peeling it with a knife; that he could wield a blade in the presence of the King without hesitation or remark was a clear sign of how highly the King valued and trusted him. Clearly another rising man like the pious Lord More, then, but one not yet ready (or perhaps not yet willing) to be ennobled.

Forget Charles Brandon; these two men were clearly the stars of the court.

All too soon the session was at an end. "I hope it isn't too much of an inconvenience but we won't be able to meet again until next Tuesday," the King said as he rose from his seat with an almighty stretch. "The Queen and I will be making a pilgrimage to the Shrine of Our Lady at Caversham later this week. If there's any assistance you require in the meantime…"

He leapt at the chance. "If Your Majesty would be so kind as to allow me to view the clothing and jewels you wish to be depicted wearing, I could work on the body while you are away."

"Jewels…" The King ran a hand through his hair. "I'll have to see what we have at Windsor; I'd rather not send anyone to the Tower right now with the plague in the city. You'll need someone to stand in for me as well, I presume?"

"If I might suggest, sir…that young man," he said with a nod. "The one on the left. He has your shoulders."

He looked back at the groom. "Very well. Emrys, you don't mind helping out Signore Vecelli, do you?"

The tall blonde man swallowed. "No, Your Majesty."

But the King continued to frown at the boy. "It's funny you would notice a similarity, Signore," he murmured, turning back to Tiziano. "I strongly resemble my maternal grandmother in the face; she was English and French, with a little Italian mixed in."

Whence the cleft chin, Tiziano thought.

"But," Enrico continued, "my father was part Welsh; in fact, Emrys is a distant cousin. I suppose it's inevitable that I bear some resemblance…" The corners of his mouth turned down.

Now that was a useful detail. The girl who warmed his bed at the inn had mentioned that the common people disliked the old king, but she hadn't said that the son was in agreement with them. Most kings preferred to play up any similarities between themselves and their sires for obvious reasons, but this one…he would have to be very careful indeed.

And not just about the painting, he realized, as his eyes met those of the young _bardasso_ with the Welsh name.

* * *

Tiziano Vecelli is of course better known to the English-speaking world as Titian, and Eleanor was his patron in real life. He was famed in his day for his glorious use of colour; unfortunately, many of the green pigments he favoured were copper-based and have faded to a dull brown over the centuries, whereas his blues and reds have remained much more vivid. Modern people in this universe might assume Henry's eyes were brown.

Talking about eyes, the marital history of Thomas More and his father John More could cross a historian's twice over. At this point in time Thomas was married to his first wife, Joan Colt, while the elder More was married to his third wife, Joan Bowes; for added fun, the families lived together under one roof and (if that weren't enough) Thomas More's unmarried younger brother, also named John, lived with them. There's no way to know whether either woman was pregnant in 1510 in real life – we have no evidence either way – but one of Thomas More's earlier biographers stated that Joan Colt suffered numerous miscarriages and stillbirths and may have died of puerperal fever, a common cause of death among even wealthy London women.

Unfortunately the date of Joan Colt's death is almost as obscure as that of Anne Brandon, Charles's second wife, who is said to have died in either 1510 or 1511. (Wikipedia lists only the second date, but the first is traditional.)

Edited to add: Thank you to the early reviewer who pointed out that I didn't explain "feno" and "bardasso". I did write an endnote but of course I missed it when I cut and pasted. In short, the first is Venetian slang meaning "homosexual" deriving from the Roman "finnochio", while the second is archaic Italian slang for a male prostitute, especially a young and passive one. Worldly, cynical men were thick on the ground back then.


	17. His Queen

Banstead House  
19 August 1510

Eustache silently drew open the bed curtains, letting the shimmering moonlight caress Catrine's alabaster skin.

As he slipped back into bed he allowed his gaze to linger over her shapely hips, slim waist, and full breasts half-concealed by cascades of red-gold hair. It was a glorious sight, a sight no man as low-born as he should ever be allowed to behold. She was a princess, a scion of the greatest family of Europe, a woman so far above him as to make even so much as a passing acquaintance improbable.

And yet…and yet here he was.

He looked up into her face, expecting her to still be asleep: but she was watching him, the waning Moon reflected in her pale eyes. "Could you not sleep, _mi tesoro_?"

He caught her hand and brought it to his lips. "I am admiring you. I believe I have that privilege."

"You do, although," and her gaze flickered downward momentarily, "you are exquisitely admirable yourself."

"I am inspired."

"And irresistible," she purred, pressing him down into the soft bed, their bodies intertwining. Her voice came hot against his cheek: "Mine."

"Yours, always…"

The breath caught in his throat as he found himself enveloped in her warmth. She was ravenously hungry for his touch, his body, his very maleness: she was the most beautiful woman in the world and she burned for him. What man would be so mad as to not give her everything she asked for?

He awoke much later to find her standing by the window, huddled into her dressing gown as she peered out into the murky gloom, a single candle illuminating the room. "Come back to bed, _chérie_ ," he said, holding out a hand to her. "It isn't even morning yet."

But she shook her head. "It's actually after dawn," she said, her lips thin as she gave him a strained smile, "although with the fog you wouldn't know it. I'm…I wish we didn't have to go to court. I'll miss this."

He pulled his shirt over his head and joined her at the window. "It won't be for long. I only wish…"

"I know," she said with a smile, "but if you don't leave me now, my housemaid will be scandalized."

He dropped to his knees, bestowing a more than courtly kiss on her hand. It was their custom, one that he had no intention of changing even when they did marry; she was his lady and would always be. "Your Highness."

"Monsieur."

He slipped through the door connecting her bedchamber with his and threw open the curtains. The rays of the newly risen sun were poking through the trees of the deer park, burning away the fog as surely as Catrine's love had cut through the confusion and loneliness of his life and given him a purpose. He was the beloved of an earthly goddess: he was the most fortunate of men.

He'd never asked God why He had wrought this miracle, for he was convinced he was not the beneficiary of His grace but a mere instrument in His hands. Catrine had fought the Devil in the person of Henry Tudor the elder, and although she'd prevailed she hadn't survived the Hell he'd put her through unscathed. The abuse, humiliation, and subjugation she'd endured over the years of her widowhood had shaped her into an untameable force of nature, one only able to accept the love of a man who would willingly bend his knee to her – a man like him, in other words.

Under the rules of chivalry he really should have offered her nothing more than chaste, courtly love, the kind celebrated (if not actually depicted) in _Le Morte d'Arthur._ But what use did she have for a knight? She needed to be lady and mistress, to wield the sword, to give orders and be obeyed. Most of all, though, she needed to be loved body and soul. Perhaps another man would feel emasculated by such womanly strength but he found it exhilarating beyond words. Had God made him this way, had He led him to this land because He knew Catrine would need such a man? Perhaps. All he knew for certain was that he'd never felt more masculine in his life than he did at her feet.

Of course they couldn't marry yet, even though they both very much wished to legitimize their love before God. Unfortunately, what was possible was not necessarily prudent, especially in the case of a union that would be seen by most as a mésalliance.

Their greatest threat had once been Catrine's father Ferdinand of Aragon. He would have travelled to England and personally eviscerated Eustache alive had he known – well, as long as he'd been able to make some sort of political hay out of it. But the hand of God had stayed his terrible vengeance in the form of a paralytic stroke that had left the old campaigner mute and crippled, a prisoner as much of his own body as of the Alhambra. Spain was now in the capable hands of his bastard son, the Archbishop of Zaragoza, whose first act as Viceroy had been to remove Catrine from the succession as a loyal subject of the King of England. She had cried for her father, or at least for the father of her childhood, but the loss of her rights? She'd danced around the Great Hall in glee when the news arrived. Freedom, she'd called it: sweet, blessed freedom.

The only thing stopping them now was King Henry. He couldn't legally prevent them from contracting a marriage; not only did English common law give widows the right to choose their own second husband, Magna Carta explicitly prohibited the King from interfering in the selection. But they both saw the wisdom of obtaining his permission, and they could also see that marrying too soon could put him in a bind should a regency become necessary before Eleanor turned eighteen. The King had many options for a Lord Protector – the two dukes, Archbishop Bainbridge, even Thomas More – but the only possible Regent at the moment was Catrine, and marriage to a foreign subject would make that impossible. So they watched and waited and counted the days until Eleanor was old enough to take on the position herself.

His eyes rested on his father's old silver crucifix as he knelt at his prie-dieu and cleared his mind, giving thanks to God once again for his great good fortune and asking the Blessed Virgin to spread her gentle, sheltering hand over all of them: Catrine, himself, their attendants, Juan at Westminster, his own family in Savoy, Henry and Eleanor, and even old King Ferdinand, who doubtless needed the Virgin's prayers more than anyone. Could there be a worse fate for an old soldier…

Ethelred soon arrived with an ewer of steaming hot water. "Master Parry begs a word before we leave, sir," he said as Eustache crossed himself and rose to his feet. "He didn't say why, but he looked worried."

"I'll go down as soon as I'm washed and dressed. I assume there's bread out?"

"Just maslin. Cook's having one of her peculiar spells."

He scrubbed himself clean and attended to his sparse beard as the boy prattled on about the perpetually unstable (to put it mildly) cook. Ethelred had been with them for four weeks now, ever since he'd come down from Richmond in Thomas More's company. But once he'd tasted country life he hadn't wanted to go back and had begged Catrine to let him join her household in whatever capacity she let him. A flurry of letters had settled the matter, his uncle recognizing the benefit to his orphaned nephew of serving in a smaller yet still highly prestigious household and readily agreeing to the transfer. The less competition there was within the ranks, Brian Tuke had reasoned, the higher his nephew could rise in royal service.

It had indeed made a world of difference to the child, although perhaps not in the way Tuke had anticipated. No longer the sallow, exhausted waif perishing in hot, itchy wool livery and surviving off kitchen scraps, Ethelred fairly glowed with the rude good health of a boy who ate well, dressed comfortably, and played hard. His duties, far from onerous, consisted mainly of drawing water for Eustache's morning ablutions and taking his soiled linens down to the laundry; when he wasn't handling those simple tasks or studying under the watchful eye of Catrine's confessor Dr. Tunstall he was outdoors practicing archery and horsemanship or playing with the tenant children. It was the perfect environment, Eustache thought, for a boy to grow to healthy, active manhood.

Once he had finished his toilette he headed downstairs, begging a chunk of raw turnip from a kitchenmaid along with his breakfast of day-old maslin bread and butter. As Master of the Horse it was his duty in theory to supervise the stables, and although the position was in truth a sinecure any work he did take on was a good match for the skills he'd acquired over the years at his grandfather's stud farm at Charvonnex. That said, it was Catrine's stable master, Roderick Parry, who really ran the show; intelligent and perceptive, Parry had spent the last thirty years caring for Margaret Beaufort's horses, and was better at reading the animals than any man he'd ever met.

Unfortunately for Eustache, Parry was more than a fair hand at reading people too.

It had begun shortly after their arrival at Banstead back in April. Eustache had thought he and Catrine had been discreet but Parry had instantly realized the true nature of their relationship and hadn't wasted any time finding ways to subtly needle him over it. The latest was a litany of sly references to Taliesin, the randy chestnut palfrey Emperor Maximilian had given Catrine last year. One day he'd profess himself surprised that the colt had a Welsh name and not a Savoyard one, the next he'd remark upon his interest in Llamrei, the sorrel jennet Catrine usually rode. His point was as clear as a splinter of glass and twice as sharp, and it was only rarely that Eustache found himself able to come up with a suitable riposte.

They met that morning just outside the paddock gate, where Parry was overseeing the grooms loading the baggage carts. "It's Llamrei," Parry said, lifting his cap in greeting. "Hoof's still bothering her. Farrier doesn't think it's an abscess but he'd like to soak it just in case. We've saddled up Bonesig for Her Grace – unless she was intending to ride her handsome colt today?"

He winced; a palpable hit indeed. "Bonesig will be fine," he said. "Has Richard had a chance to exercise Abrax yet?"

Parry nodded back toward the stalls, his expression softening a touch. "They've just returned. He's in fine fettle; I don't think he's up to Richmond, but it might do some good to put him on pasture later, away from the mares. Why did they have him gelded so late in life anyway?"

"The stud manager didn't like what they got out of him but he was too good to cull. Funny, isn't it, how they always remember even when they can't do it any longer…just like old men, I suppose." And he smiled sweetly, ignoring Parry's sour grunt.

 _Touché, Monsieur._

But he had more urgent things to do that morning than trade barbs with the irascible stable master. After bidding him farewell he headed back to the stalls, where Richard was brushing down Abrax. "How is he?" he asked the boy.

"Desirous of what he can't have, sir. Got nipped by Cariad something fierce."

At that he could only laugh. "She'll teach him soon enough. I'll finish up here if you'll get Cadfan ready for me."

He took the brush from Richard, smiling as the grizzled old bay leaned into his touch. He'd come to Eustache from Charvonnex eight years ago as a recently gelded six-year-old, and over those eight years they'd covered many hundreds of miles together throughout Savoy and west to England. But last year's trip had been hard on him, and it had become apparent over the past summer that he no longer had the stamina for long-distance riding. Perhaps another man would have had him put down but Eustache wasn't so heartless as to abandon his companion to the tender mercies of the horse slaughterer just yet, especially when there was still so much life in the old boy.

That decision had unexpectedly done more to reconcile Roderick Parry and his men to his position as Master of the Horse than anything. Parry might enjoy needling him but he wasn't the kind to consign a faithful friend to the slaughterer either, and he'd treated Eustache with greater respect – well, slightly greater – once he'd learned of Abrax's condition and his resolve. It helped that despite Abrax being relatively 'useless' one more mouth to feed hardly made a difference in an operation this size, especially if it made the boss happy.

He was fully aware that the last could be said of himself as well.

He fed Abrax the turnip he'd begged from the kitchenmaid and leaned close to his ear, sharing a few private murmurs with him, but it wasn't long until he had to leave. "Take care, old man," he said under his breath, worried Richard would overhear him and think him foolishly soft-hearted. "I'll be back in a week or so."

The bay nuzzled him as if he understood – but then perhaps he did. Much like servants, horses generally knew more than they let on.

They departed Banstead shortly after seven, taking advantage of the cool morning and the fine roads to push the horses a bit harder than usual on the way to Richmond. "Are we to join the royal party at Richmond, Monsieur?" Catrine asked him as they reached the boundaries of the palace grounds.

"No, Highness," he replied, as aware as she that the guards were within hearing distance. "The King and Queen departed yesterday for the Tower."

Her lips thinned. "I only hope it won't be too much for her."

Once they reached the palace he drew back, taking his place beside Maria de Salinas as Catrine was greeted by Lord Edward Howard, who was also to be ennobled that evening along with six other men and women. It was good to see the palace back to normal after the thirty days of mourning that had followed the death of the Duke of Rothesay. The infant Duke had been the third Scots heir to die in so many years; he'd also been a potential heir to the English throne as his mother, Queen Margaret, was King Henry's elder sister, hence the mourning. But today Richmond was ablaze with red, white, and gold banners fluttering in the wind in anticipation of Wednesday's coronation.

Catrine accompanied Lord Edward into the palace just as a freshening wind blew in from the southeast, whipping at the flags festooning the royal barge. Eustache sniffed the air and caught the eye of the palace steward. "Rain, Sir Hubert, do you think?"

"Storm, I think, and a bad one," he muttered, his eye on the horizon. "You deal with the horses; we'll handle the baggage."

He led the grooms to the stables as the thunder grew louder, ordering the horses to be taken into empty stalls and the carts and litters brought in or tied down. It wasn't long until the night-black skies opened up, drenching the courtyard with pounding rain and pea-sized hail; he took shelter outside Cadfan's stall in the larger horse barn, listening for any sign of distress among the animals as the rain poured down and the wind howled and the grooms and servants sent whispered prayers to Heaven.

Finally after twenty long minutes the storm let up enough that he was able to poke his head through the barn door. He couldn't see much damage outside of drooping banners and an uprooted tree near the south gate, and by the looks of things Sir Hubert had got the baggage in before the worst of the rain. It still took two hours of hard work on everyone's part to get the barges drained and the baggage back on the scows; it was well after one by the time they pushed off from the dock.

As the rowers (and the quickly ebbing tide) propelled them downstream he kept an eye on passing traffic, idly attending to Catrine's conversation with Lord Edward while ignoring his growling stomach. From what Howard was saying in his roundabout way the Londoners were looking forward to Queen Eleanor's coronation more because it offered a chance to celebrate the end of the plague than out of any real allegiance. "Not that they have anything against the girl, God love 'er," he was saying, "but you can't give free wine to a bloke who's lost his only son and expect him not to drown his bleedin' sorrows in it."

"Perhaps not," Catrine agreed, hiding a smile at Lord Edward's choice of words. "I'm only relieved that Lady Morley has recovered. Is she well enough to attend the investiture tonight?"

"Thank God, Alice is as fit as God and the black robes could make 'er," he replied with a fond smile. "I don't know what I'd do without that lass: perish, I guess, 'cause she's the best damned thing to ever happen to me. And to think, the old man didn't want me marrying 'er. I tell you this, Princess: if – _if_ – you ever have a chance for love, snap it up and whatever you do don't let the arseholes of the world get in your way." And he tapped the side of his nose with a finger and sent the briefest of glances in Eustache's direction.

They arrived at Westminster just as the bells of the Abbey were ringing to call the Benedictines to Nones. Lord Edward led Catrine out of the barge and into the palace, leaving Eustache to assist her ladies-in-waiting and the other women on board. Once he'd made sure they were all safely on dry land he whispered a word to the head bargeman and accompanied the ladies through the gate and into the courtyard.

His first experience of an English palace had been Placentia, a frothy confection of stone and glass that was more a retreat from the smoke and smell of London than a proper seat of government. Westminster was a different animal entirely; Parliament would sit there in October, and many of the great offices of state had their headquarters within its walls. The palace was consequently busier – and, regrettably, filthier – than its Kentish cousin. Even the courtyard showed signs of misuse, with crisscrossing tracks cutting through the flowerbeds and muddy footprints smeared all over the cobbled walkways.

He entered the Royal Apartments and relinquished care of the ladies to the Queen's Chamberlain as arranged; as they followed Lord Mountjoy up the grand staircase he took a moment to look around. Cleaner and less chaotic than the rest of the palace, the building was still a confusing warren of private rooms and crowded dormitories, and with every councillor and courtier in attendance for the coronation it was unlikely he'd warrant even the tiny private room he'd been given back in March. In fact, he'd have to look sharp and secure a pallet in the servants' dormitory before—

"Monsieur Chapuys!"

He turned to find Henry Norris of the King's Privy Chamber waving to him from across the room. "Good afternoon, Mr. Norris," he said, touching his hat as they met near the base of the staircase. "I presume everything is well with you?"

Norris returned his bow. "Very well indeed, I thank you; and yourself?"

"A bit confused at the moment, sir, to tell the truth. Have you seen one of the Household clerks around? I need to secure a berth before the palace is completely full."

He chuckled. "That's why I'm here, sir; to accompany you to your rooms. Follow me."

 _Rooms_? Mystified and with dread curling in his stomach, he wordlessly followed Norris up the staircase.

"I've had your trunk and saddlebags brought up, by the way," Norris said over his shoulder. "Your Master Sugg – was he at court before?"

"As a page, yes."

He nodded distractedly as they reached the first floor. "I thought I recognized him. He was guarding your possessions rather fiercely so I sent him up as well."

They crossed the first floor gallery and took the main staircase up to the second floor where the royal family's rooms were located, but instead of continuing upstairs to the servants' floor Norris turned left into the great north wing. Eustache shot him a look, but he merely grinned and kept walking.

They continued down to the end of the corridor and around a corner, stopping in front of a heavy door. He stepped inside – and his mouth fell open.

The suite was divided into two vast oak-panelled rooms, both sumptuously furnished in rich velvets and damasks with windows overlooking the west courtyard and the Hall. To his left stood an upholstered walnut prie-dieu set under a massy gold crucifix; in front of him was a heavy, age-darkened table and chairs elaborately carved with Tudor roses and Beaufort portcullises. A set of double doors to his right opened into a luxurious bedchamber dominated by the largest bed he'd ever seen. Even the ceiling hadn't escaped an onslaught of Tudor exuberance, with figured roses picked out in red and white paint on a pale blue background.

It was all too much, more than too much for a nineteen-year-old son of a notary who had been happy a year ago to have his own pallet and hook. And there was only one possible reason, a possibility he'd been dreading ever since Lord Edward shot that glance at him.

They knew.

They all knew.

 _Everyone_ knew.

He somehow had the presence to thank Norris and send him on his busy way, but as the door clicked shut behind him he dropped into one of the thickly upholstered chairs with a thud, his head in his hands.

That King Henry was aware of their relationship wouldn't have surprised him; he was the King, after all, and Catrine's close friend on top of that. But there was no way even the King could arrange for him to be assigned rooms of this magnificence without questions being asked by everyone from the Groom of the Stool to the Master of the Household; not, that is, unless they already had the answer.

What must they think of Catrine?

He should have stayed at Banstead…he should have let Dr. Tunstall accompany her instead…he should have done something to protect her from the jeers and insults—

A discreet cough distracted him from his rampaging thoughts; he looked up to find Ethelred standing in front of him, a silver goblet filled to the brim with red wine in his hands. "Are you all right, sir?"

"I…I'm a bit taken aback," he somehow got out; and if that wasn't the understatement of his short life he'd eat his hat. "Thank you. I, um…what do you think of the rooms?"

"Decent, if a bit past the style. Matt – he brought the wine – said they used to be Sir Charles Brandon's before he cheated and got put on the shit list."

He knew he should chastise the boy for his foul mouth but he didn't have it in him. He was the one who needed – well, more than just verbal correction; he needed a birch across his back. He had been the one to put Catrine in this position. Should he have said no to her? Should he have denied her his love, refused to worship her body and soul?

The answer came as quickly as the questions had: no.

Society would damn them if they knew – and would damn Catrine far more than himself – but he could no more have turned away from her than he could have stopped the Moon from shining last night.

The wine was excellent but a single sip told him it was far too rich for his roiling stomach; he rose to his feet and was about to pour some water into his goblet when he stopped, hand on the flagon. "It's safe?" he asked Ethelred.

"Safe as houses. They cart the drinking water in from Hampstead Springs."

He added a good dash of water and drank deeply, refilling his glass as he took a closer look around. The apartment was indeed 'a bit past the style', as Ethelred had put it; the table and chairs were twenty years old if they were a day, and although the curtains and bedhangings were in excellent condition they were still clearly of an earlier era. "I'm surprised," he said, grasping for conversational straws as he stepped into the bedchamber and looked around, "that Sir Charles didn't take the opportunity to modernize the suite."

But Ethelred just rolled his eyes. "As long as it's posh he doesn't care, sir, and the fancier the better. Bit of a social climber and greedy with it as well."

Catrine had said as much, Eustache mused, and she'd had a point. Charles Brandon had gained a reputation for dishonour throughout Europe when he'd cheated at the January joust, but the signs had been there for years; he'd stolen his first wife's fortune and left her destitute after arranging a hasty annulment, and his second wife (may God rest her soul) would likely have suffered the same fate one day had she not died last month. It had been Catrine's firm opinion that King Henry's bill restricting fortune hunters was intended primarily to prevent men like Brandon from wreaking havoc with another family's patrimony.

But now he knew better. That bill had nothing to do with Brandon or his ilk; it was targeted directly at him.

He hadn't seen it before that moment, but it couldn't have been more obvious if it had been written on the panelling in his own blood. Had the King truly objected to their relationship Eustache would have been on a boat back to Europe by now or even with the angels. He'd seen Dudley's and Empson's tarred heads atop London Bridge; he knew what the man was capable of. Why, then, was he still here? He could only assume the King approved of him – or perhaps he simply didn't disapprove, which amounted to the same thing. Nevertheless it was understandable, even laudable that he would take steps to protect Catrine and her fortune from a man he barely knew.

He took a seat on the bed as Ethelred returned to his unpacking, his eyes on the shirt he would wear that evening at the ceremony. She'd given up most of her domestic pastimes – any interest she'd had in embroidery had been destroyed by years of mending frayed and stained clothing – but she still insisted on sewing his shirts.

A princess sewed his shirts.

It was as if he lived in a troubadour song.

He examined the far end of the bedchamber, which hadn't been visible from the sitting room. The clothes press that held his meagre wardrobe was as outsized and elaborate as the bed, while an oak and maple chess table and matching chairs had been placed against the far wall below a heartwarming painting of Jael hammering a tent peg through Sisera's head. Flanking the artwork on either side were two doors; he rose and, placing his goblet on one of the chairs so as not to stain the table, opened the left-hand one to find a small room containing a close stool and a wooden tub. "I assume I'll be expected to immerse myself at some point today?" he asked.

"Yes, sir, after supper," Ethelred called from the other room, "but if you want to wash up now there's hot water and soap out here."

But his eyes were on the close stool and its seat of thickly padded crimson velvet. Velvet, on a close stool seat…

The distance between Catrine and him had never felt greater. At Banstead she was the lady of the house but she didn't live in extreme splendour, not like this. But this was how she had been raised; this was her normal. He squatted down, reached out to touch the soft, thick velvet…

…and the next thing he felt was cold stone against one cheek and warm fingers against the other. He looked up into Catrine's concerned face.

"Ethelred came to get me," she said, fear in her eyes. "I've sent him for the doctor."

"I'm fine," he mumbled, pushing himself up into a sitting position – but the world began to spin wildly and he ended up back on the floor. The second time was the charm; he carefully eased his back against the door and pushed himself upwards. "I missed dinner," he told her as she wiped his brow, "and…wait, you came through the corridor…" What if she'd been seen, what if rumours were already flying—

But she shook her head. "There's a service hallway that runs between our rooms and down to the kitchens. That's where the other door in your bedchamber leads."

Slowly and with Catrine's help he drew himself up to his feet and made his way out to the sitting room, where he took a seat at the table just as the boy burst into the room. "Dr. Linacre can't come, ma'am," he explained to Catrine with a bow. "Lord Arundel's having one of his lung spells."

"And Dr. de Victoria?" she asked.

"At the Tower with the Queen, ma'am."

He held up a hand. "I don't need a doctor. I simply missed dinner and the wine went to my head."

"Italian wine can be strong," she said, doubt colouring her voice. "Ethelred, see if you can wheedle something out of the cook. If she objects tell her it's for me. And bring two trenchers."

"Shall I tell Lady Parr you're supping with Monsieur, ma'am?"

"Please do, but if there are strangers in the room be sure to call him my Master of the Horse."

"Yes, ma'am."

"I feel like a fool," Eustache grumbled as he watched the boy run off. "Passing out in the privy like a maiden with the vapours."

"You haven't eaten all day and you were run off your feet in the storm," she pointed out. "You can't expect to survive all day on a chunk of stale bread."

"It's not just that. It's…at Banstead we were a lady and her love; I didn't feel so…"

"Out of your depth?"

He nodded. "That and afraid I've let you down. Why am I in this room: why do our rooms connect? Because I must have somehow let the cat out of the bag at some point, and the court knows. I only pray the King himself doesn't think too badly of you; I'd rather—"

Her eyes suddenly gleamed with mirth.

"What?"

She covered her mouth with the back of her hand, just for a moment, to compose herself. "Henry," she began, "is not a bad man, not by any means, but a paragon of conventional virtue he is not. Trust me on this; he is well aware of our situation and as long as we are discreet enough not to advertise it to the world, he is content."

"Not a paragon of virtue?" he asked after a moment's reflection. "I wouldn't have thought him the kind of man to have mistresses. He seems so…"

But he caught Catrine's sudden strained expression and the truth of the matter hit him with the force of a sledgehammer; he had to bite his lip not to laugh out loud. "Are you saying Emperor Galba has returned to Earth in the person of the King of England, my love?"

"I am saying nothing," she countered, her face reddening. "He is a good man."

He wasn't so sure of that himself but he merely nodded. Women tended to be more tolerant of such men, he'd noticed, but perhaps it was understandable; a habitual sodomite posed much less of a threat to a lady's honour than even the gentlest knight.

That said, he thought it best to change the subject. "Have you reconciled yourself to becoming Duchess of Somerset?"

She shook her head. "It's necessary, of course, but no, I haven't changed my mind. As you well know, there is only one title I desire above all others."

He darted her a look.

She squeezed his hand and smiled. "Madame Chapuys."

He bit his lower lip, fighting the emotions threatening to burst out. What had he done for God to be so good to him?

Ethelred arrived soon after bearing a tray laden with enough to feed a peasant family for a week. "Cook says I'm to go back for more if it isn't enough, ma'am," he said, a twinkle in his eye. "All I had to say was that it was for Your Highness."

"Then take some for yourself," she told him, "and go find your friend Reg. We can serve ourselves."

Once he'd sped off, a loaf of bread and some cheese tucked under his arm, they began to eat while discussing that night's ceremony – or at least Catrine did, for in truth Eustache was so famished he demolished most of what Ethelred had brought them before he came up for air. "Do you know," he told her as they tackled the cherries, "I've never seen an investiture. In fact I don't think there's been one in Savoy in years. Duke Charles will never elevate anyone; any title that falls vacant he scoops up for himself. Count of Geneva, King of Jerusalem...the list goes on."

"Foolish man. What does he think his subjects will do the next time the French invade?"

He chuckled. "Die in his defence, I should think."

"He spends too much time in his palace then. No common man really cares who the King is…although they might care what he is not. A king without a son will never sit securely on his throne."

"Then let us pray the Queen bears King Henry a fine son who lives to rock his grandson's cradle." And that it at least vaguely resembles him, he added silently.

She lifted her goblet. "Amen to that."

They cleaned their fingers and rose from the table. "I should return the way I came," she said, taking his hands in hers. "Henry and Juan won't be at Westminster until at least eight; Lord Edward said Henry didn't want to leave Eleanor until he has to. I'll send Maria to fetch you when it's time."

He walked her into the bedchamber, where she caught sight of the painting of Jael beside the door to the servants' passageway. "A charming tableau indeed," she commented. "One wonders whose side the artist was on, his or hers."

"Hers, I would say. If he'd been on Sisera's side there'd be more gore."

"It could also be he'd never seen a serious head wound. For men called upon to depict brutal reality, artists can be singularly sheltered." Her voice dropped to a murmur. "May I come to you tonight?"

He dropped to his knees and kissed her hand. "I am your humble servant, Highness. You may come to me any night you wish."

She bent over and kissed his cheek before slipping away; moments later Ethelred returned with two other boys, all of them hauling great heavy buckets of steaming water. His uncle Pierre suddenly came to mind, and his complaints about the bath he'd been forced to endure at Placentia. What he would think if he knew about him and Catrine?

Knock him flat on his arse, probably.

At least the bath water didn't smell, he thought as he lowered himself into the cambric-lined tub and began to scrub off the day's dirt. King Henry might be a great sinner but in Eustache's opinion he was quite right to insist on cleanliness. Only a madman – or a crusty old soldier like his uncle – would prefer the scent of horse and stale sweat to those of ladies' perfumes and sweet herbs. It was a remarkably efficient system; every day hundreds of gallons (he supposed) of water was carted from the river to specially built boilers and heated until steaming, then carried up by grooms to the apartments. He'd even heard rumours that the King was planning to install conduits bringing hot and cold running water to each floor. What a difference that would make to everyone's comfort – even the grooms, who would no longer have to cart heavy pails full of hot water up and down the back staircases.

He stepped out of the tub and returned to the bedchamber, a towel around his waist so as not to offend the grooms who sneaked past him into the bathing chamber (as he supposed it was called) to take away the dirty water. Dressing for an official ceremony was an art, one he hadn't quite yet mastered; whatever noble blood ran through his veins as a vicomte's grandson and a distant cousin of the Duke of Savoy was thin enough that any inherited understanding of protocol had long been washed away by his father's solid burgher ancestry. But for the time being he didn't have to worry too much about the minutiae of the sumptuary laws as the rules were fairly straightforward for senior royal servants, and he was soon dressed in the hose, doublet, jerkin, and overgown suitable to his rank as Master of the Horse, Catrine's hand-sewn shirt under it all.

He slipped on his dress shoes and was about to pick up his hat when Ethelred wordlessly handed a comb to him; he crossed to the mirror and straightened out the rat's nest on his head. "You should really hire a valet, sir, when the time comes," the boy said as he handed him the hat. "I don't mind helping out for now but Uncle Brian wouldn't want me to do it regular."

"You're right," he murmured: and he was. There was no shame in a gentleman's son serving as a groom in a royal household, but valeting was a trade which no gentleman would willingly follow – or have the training to follow, for that matter. If he were to rise in the world he would need to hire a valet of his own.

He donned the hat, adjusting it in the mirror so Catrine's pomegranate badge fell just in front of his left ear as was the fashion. He would need to design his own badge after they married, perhaps even his own coat of—

And it suddenly occurred to him that he would be famous. The people would know of him; his name would appear in the history books one day. Just like Owen Tudor…although Eustache would never found a dynasty, thank God.

He took a deep breath, pushing down a wave of panic, and turned back to Ethelred. "Have you found a spot to watch the procession tomorrow?"

"Uncle Brian and Aunt Grissell have a house in the Strand, sir: that is, if I'm permitted to go."

"Of course you may; just be back before sundown. It isn't safe out there for a boy your age at night. In fact…" He crossed to the saddlebag propped up under the window and drew out a thin package wrapped in linen. "Her Highness asked me to give you this. She thinks it's high time you had one of your own, and your uncle agrees. Go ahead; open it."

He took it and unrolled the linen, his eyes lighting up as he drew out the short, double-edged blade sheathed in dark leather. "A dagger! Thank you!"

Eustache knew anything he said at the moment about blade etiquette would go in one ear of the starry-eyed boy and out the other, so he merely clapped him on the shoulder. "We'll talk more tomorrow. Now go show it off to your friends before the ceremony, but remember to be careful. And don't forget to thank Her Highness tomorrow."

Ethelred nodded eagerly. "I will, sir, I promise!"

Once he was gone Eustache leaned out the sitting room window, looking down into the west courtyard where vast armies of porters were carrying in the supplies for Wednesday's banquet. There were sides of beef, young pigs, saddles of mutton, ducks, geese, and baskets of fruit, each one heading for a different destination, a different chef. Through the chaos ran dogs and boys, among them eventually Ethelred and his best friend, Reg Pole, who was regarding the new dagger with awe. Nice boy, young Pole, if a little serious – but then again his mother was to be ennobled that evening along with Catrine and Lord Edward, so perhaps he already felt the weight of the honour.

A knock soon came at the door; it was Maria in her finest gown. "I assume it's time?"

She took his arm with a frown. "As long as you don't pass out again. You terrified her half to death, do you know that?"

"And I am heartily sorry for it. Shall we?"

As they made their way down the staircase to the first floor gallery, Maria looked around, then leaned toward him and whispered in his ear. "What do you think of your rooms?"

"Why do you think I passed out?" he replied. "I was expecting to have to eke out a pallet somewhere and suddenly there I was, housed in absolute splendour. I doubt Duke Charles has rooms that elegant in his finest palace. Ethelred told me they used to belong to Sir Charles Brandon."

"Only since King Henry's succession. In fact, they used to be Henry's back when Queen Elizabeth was alive; she used to reside in Catrine's apartments. Before that they belonged to the old King's uncle, the Duke of Bedford."

He frowned. "Why didn't Queen Elizabeth sleep in her own rooms?"

"The Queen's Apartments? The bastard gave those to his mother."

He shuddered with disgust. Had anything about the man, he wondered, not been twisted?

No one paid much attention to them as they entered the Presence Chamber and chose a spot near the far wall. The room was teeming with family, friends, and servants of the eight men, women, and children who were to be raised to the peerage that evening. It was to be, Lady Parr had mentioned, a fairly subdued ceremony, due not just to the death of the Duke of Rothesay but also to the general mood of the court. The Londoners might crave a celebration after months of pestilence, but the aristocracy was less prone to drinking their woes away.

He traded polite nods with Thomas More from across the room. The lawyer had been kind enough to answer a few of his questions about the investiture last week, questions Catrine and Dr. Tunstall hadn't been able to answer. There were two ways to make a man a lord, he'd written in response to his request; by writ of summons or by letters patent. The writ was the older form and was once the most common but it suffered from two drawbacks; it could only be issued just before a Parliament was convened, and those so summoned had to be adult men sound in mind and body. If the King wanted to ennoble a child, a woman, or a man of great age, or if he'd missed the deadline for Parliament (as with Lord Edward), he would have to use letters patent. The latter method also had the advantage that the King could specify how the title would be inherited if, say, the recipient died childless or left only daughters.

More had also explained – at quite some length – how the Norman system of primogeniture clashed with Angevin laws allowing for cognatic inheritance and the resulting differences in how lands, titles, and other honours passed down through the generations depending on the wording and date of the original deed. He'd sent immediate thanks to More and had read the letter over and over again but after three days of listening to him enthuse over it Catrine had smiled and begged him to stop, claiming that the law made her head hurt.

Maria elbowed him gently as Juan entered the room in his robes followed by Thomas Heneage and Dr. Tunstall. He approached them and accepted their bows, the perfect polite little lordling – at least until he caught Maria with a kiss on her cheek as she rose from her curtsy. Nobody minded; he was, after all, still only six years old, and he was here to see his favourite aunt (as he knew her) become a duchess.

"The King told me to stand with you and Tia Maria," he told Eustache. "Where's Tia – I mean Her Grace?"

"She's waiting in the anteroom, my lord," he said, kneeling down to speak to the boy on his level. "The lords and ladies will be called in one by one. Her Highness will be the last, so we'll have to wait a while."

"That's because she's being made a duchess, right? The highest go last."

"That's right."

He thought for a moment. "Will I ever be able to make someone a lord?"

Maria opened her mouth to chastise him, but he held up a hand to forestall her. "It's not likely, my lord," he said to Juan, "but if you lead one of His Majesty's armies some day you might be permitted to knight gentlemen in the field. But to do that you must first prove yourself worthy of such a sacred command, and that takes a great deal of work, as you know."

He nodded. "Master Vadi says that if I practice very hard, some day I might be as good as Ti…as Her Grace."

"If there were more swordsmen as talented as she in this realm, England would never lose a war." That, he thought, was the absolute truth.

He rose to his feet as Ethelred joined them, ignoring the daggers Doña Esmeralda was staring into his back. It wasn't that she hated him, not exactly; it was more that his existence contradicted her vision of Catrine as perpetual noble victim. He suspected she would change her tune when they married, but until then he would have to bear her disapproval as best he could.

The heralds suddenly announced the King; all bowed and curtseyed as he entered the room, only rising after he took his seat under the canopy of estate flanked by the Dukes of Norfolk and Buckingham in their formal robes. Bishop Ruthall, the King's Private Secretary, unrolled the first scroll and read out the English text in a clear, ringing voice.

The first three honourees were all young men of perhaps twelve to sixteen years of age. Their names – Ratcliffe, Catesby, and Brackenbury – didn't mean anything to him, but from the expressions on some of the English faces there was indeed a story behind them. Each of them accepted the patent of their nobility with a serious face, but out of the corner of his eye he could see a group of women beaming their approval – their mothers, he could only presume.

"Their grandfathers died on King Richard's side in the Cousins' War," Maria whispered. "The King allowed them to take the family names with their new titles. He's building bridges, if you ask me."

Next came Lord Edward Howard, who was being ennobled for his efforts in bringing Henry's new warships in ahead of time and significantly under budget. As Ruthall read out the patent Eustache noticed that the new Lord Howard of Chislehurst's barony was remaindered to his younger brother, Lord Edmund, in lieu of lawful heirs male of his body.

Juan had been standing patiently in front of him, but even the calmest six-year-old could only tolerate so much pomp. Eustache silently placed a hand on his shoulder, gently willing him to be still; out of the corner of his eye he saw the corner of Doña Maria's mouth quirk up.

Next came two venerable court functionaries, one hobbled by gout, who received baronies in thanks for years of loyal service. Once again the pompous English words flowed out of Ruthall's mouth; once again proud families looked on. If he'd stayed in Savoy this might have been his fate one day – well, if Duke Charles didn't pass his rapacity down to his son. Nobody was getting a barony out of that man.

Reg Pole's mother, the new Countess of Warwick and Salisbury, accepted her patent with the greatest of dignity. The only daughter of the Duke of Clarence, she had (according to Catrine) survived old King Henry's reign only due to his undeservedly low opinion of her intelligence; he'd killed her brother at the request of Ferdinand and Isabella – or so went the story.

And then it was Catrine's turn. Magnificent in royal purple velvet as was her right as an _infanta de sangre_ , her red-gold hair streaming down her back, dripping with diamonds and sapphires he'd never seen before, she entered the room followed by Lady Boleyn and Lady Parr with her robes and a page with the coronet.

Had such glorious womanhood ever graced God's earth before? No, he decided; never.

At his side he heard Maria gasp. "Isabella's jewels," she whispered. "The bastard stole them from her."

His estimation of young King Henry suddenly rose sharply. Perhaps he did have his good side.

She knelt, her back ramrod straight, as Bishop Ruthall read out her patent – in Latin, for some reason – and proclaimed her not just Duchess of Somerset but Countess of Sussex and Baroness Banstead as well, with remainder to…

…had he heard right?

For Ruthall had just said that the titles would descend to heirs of her body.

Not lawful heirs: simply heirs of the body, which meant lawful or not.

No one else seemed to have noticed; perhaps they didn't understand Latin well enough. Only one other person in the room had reacted to the omission of that word: Catrine's eyes had widened almost imperceptibly and she'd shot a look at Henry.

Eustache couldn't have stopped himself from smiling if he tried.

Juan would inherit. As long as she recognized him, even privately, Juan would inherit, praise God, the Virgin, and all the saints. He reached out to clasp the boy's shoulder again, only stopping himself at the last moment for fear someone would wonder why.

The people of London could have their coronation, he decided, pride welling in his chest as Henry drew Catrine up and, smiling broadly, placed the coronet on her head. They could have their fountains of wine, their procession, their banquet: they could have Eleanor, and Henry too for that matter.

Catrine was all he wanted. She was his Queen.

* * *

Author's notes: the story of Jael and Sisera can be found in Chapters 4 and 5 of the Book of Judges. It was a popular subject of Renaissance Christian artists, as it worked both as an allegory on the righteousness of tyrannicide and as a warning of the dangers of allowing women power over men. In contrast, Jewish women were often painted holding a hammer and tent peg in her honour, as she was and is rightly considered a heroine of the Jewish people and a deliverer of Israel; Yael is one of the most popular girls' names in Israel today.

For those wondering why Edward Howard's wife is called "Lady Morley": the real Sir Edward Howard (Lord Edward in this story) was indeed married to Alice, Baroness Morley, who held the barony in her own right. Her son by her first marriage, Henry Parker, succeeded her as the tenth Lord Morley and was the father of Jane Boleyn.


	18. The Lies We Tell Ourselves

Westminster Palace  
19 August 1510

Henry gently placed the coronet on Catalina's graceful head, unable to keep the grin off his face. She was now a duchess: Nora's worries would be assuaged, Cata's own status as his loyal subject confirmed, the Spanish Viceroy and his nattering ambassador reassured, and Juan…Juan would be a Duke one day as long as Cata acknowledged him, if only in her will.

Whether she would was another matter, but either way it was entirely her decision.

He took the scroll from Dr. Ruthall. "The patent of your nobility, Your Highness."

She accepted it with an elegant curtsy and took his hand as they left the Presence Chamber, the other lords behind them in reverse order of their dignity followed by the Yeomen of the Guard. Normally there would be a great banquet after an investiture with dancing and masques and possibly even a pageant on the river, but most of the attendees would be up at the crack of dawn tomorrow either to prepare for the coronation procession or out of force of habit, and he'd accordingly arranged for a less formal feast in the Minor Great Hall accompanied by a quartet of musicians.

They passed down the corridor and into the Hall, where he and Cata took their seats on the dais accompanied by the Dukes of Norfolk and Buckingham and their duchesses and the Countess of Warwick. Serving him at table tonight was Norfolk's oldest son the Earl of Surrey, whom he'd also tasked with keeping an eye on the health of the two elderly court officials he'd ennobled that day. It still seemed strange to him even after a year on the throne to be served by an Earl almost twenty years his senior but Surrey had taken the request as a signal honour, which was a relief; no man in his realm was quicker to bristle if he felt he had been dishonoured, intentionally or not.

As he picked at his venison and idly discussed Nora's coronation procession with the Duke of Buckingham, he cast his gaze down at the revellers at the lower tables. The three Yorkist boys he'd ennobled were sitting nearest the dais with their mothers, but he couldn't see which was which. It didn't matter much; they were children, after all, and hardly of any interest, and for all his love of his new eyeglasses he was still loath to use them in public. Even in Vecelli's brilliant portrait – talk about making a silk purse out of a sow's ear – he only held them in his hands. It wasn't that he was worried how they made him look, not exactly; it was more that he didn't like to attract attention to his deficiencies. Spectacles could make a man look slightly ridiculous, and that was something no king of his age and inexperience could risk.

He'd gotten through the venison and had started on the strawberry tart – a surpassingly good one, as such things went – when a gravelly voice came low to his ear. "Lord Booth's fading, Your Majesty."

He gave Surrey a quick nod of thanks and rose to his feet, making a show of a yawn as the rest of the revellers stood with him. Royal dining protocol was strict: no one could sit, be served, eat, or (as in this case) leave before he did, not even an eighty-year-old newly minted baron on his last legs. "Your Highness, Your Graces, my lords, gentlemen, and ladies," he boomed, "I thank you for your company. As you all know, tomorrow will be a busy day for all of us and myself especially, so I must therefore bid you a fond good night. Enjoy your evening!"

"Good evening, Your Majesty," they chorused.

He left the hall – and not a moment too soon, as Lord Booth was indeed almost asleep on his feet – and returned to the comfort and quiet of his private apartments, members of the Yeomen Guards ahead of and behind him.

It was a lucky coincidence that Booth's age and infirmities had provided him with an excuse to leave the banquet early. He didn't dislike good food and wine; he simply found the noise and crowds draining. Give him a good game of chess or even some routine paperwork any day over the tedious inanity of dinner conversation and the bleating of lutes and virginals.

He left the guards at the door to his apartments where John Arundell, the esquire on duty that night, was awaiting his arrival. "Has the messenger from Calais arrived yet, Jack?" he asked.

Arundell rose from his bow. "Yes, Your Majesty, with a letter from Sir Thomas Boleyn—"

"Thick or thin?"

"Fairly thick, sir."

Excellent. "And?"

"He also brought letters from Mr. Stile in Spain and the Archbishop of Canterbury in Rome, sir, and…well, there's one seal I don't recognize."

He looked down at the letter in question, frowning at the plain cross and shield; he'd been wondering when that shoe would drop. "For future reference, that is the Duke of Savoy's seal," he said. "Don't worry about not knowing; he writes so rarely that this might be the only time you see it. Was there anything else?"

"A note arrived earlier today from His Grace of Winchester…"

He groaned.

"…and His Grace of Bath and Wells begs an audience this evening."

"Wolsey? He's still at Westminster?"

The boy shrugged. "George Cavendish said he was intending to travel to the Tower after midnight, sir."

"Then I'll see him after I've gone through the letters." He splashed his face with cool water from the basin in the corner of the room. "How close is it to midnight?" he asked over his shoulder.

"It's not even ten, sir."

And that, he thought as he towelled himself dry, was another reason he didn't mind leaving banquets too early. The music, the overly rich food, the need to engage in conversation with men three times his age…the time could drag on like ice-cold honey under a dry knife.

He hadn't told the complete truth to the revellers, of course. Tomorrow would indeed be a busy day, but not for him; in fact, he might be the only one in the palace without a job to do. A King was not supposed to involve himself in any way, financially or otherwise, in his Queen's coronation. Tomorrow's procession had been organized and paid for by the merchants and guildsmen of the City of London, while the Church handled and footed the bill for the coronation itself and the banquet afterwards. He wasn't even supposed to show his face at any of the official events, although he naturally intended to watch the coronation itself from behind the lattice screen on the upper level of the Abbey.

There was, however, one matter he needed to decide upon before then, and now was a good time as any. He crossed to his private cupboard and, using his key to unlock the top drawer, drew out a heavy walnut jewel box.

His father had been a highly intelligent man – that he had to grant him, if nothing else – but he had far too often let his fears and suspicions lead him into acting against his own best interests. This was no more obvious than in the hoards of valuables his stewards kept discovering as they searched through his palaces and houses. The problem was that the old man had been too afraid to document any of it lest it become known to the court, so only God and the saints knew whether any of it had disappeared over the years into some court official's personal strongbox. That said, there were a few scrupulously honest men on his own payroll, and none more honest than Richard – now Sir Richard – Vere, the steward of Woodstock.

From what he and Sir Richard had pieced together from the evidence, his father had planned to use the remote Oxfordshire palace as a home base if the Londoners ever lost their minds and rose against him. To that effect he'd secreted huge amounts of money and other valuables in the palace against the day he'd need to buy mercenaries and provisions. Every week or so Vere would find another hoard of coins as he methodically searched every nook and cranny of the vast edifice; every week or so a messenger would arrive laden with more money for his treasury. But the discovery he'd made six weeks ago – well, no wonder Sir Richard had asked for guards to accompany it to Richmond. There had been diamonds, pearls, Queen Isabella's sapphires, and enough fine gold to bemedal an army, but it had been the emeralds that had understandably prompted his request. Eighty of them, large and brilliant green, all carefully wrapped in velvet and stored away against the day his father would use them for – what? Buying bread from the peasants at the gate?

Vere's probity and discretion had earned him a well-deserved knighthood that morning. Perhaps the other stewards in his employ would sit up and take notice.

He carried the case into the study, placing it on his desk and opening the lid with an audible click as Arundell followed him with the evening's correspondence. "Send a page to the kitchens, Jack, and have one of the strawberry tarts sent up," he said. "I'm sure His Grace would appreciate a late night snack; I know I would."

"Very good, Your—" Jack suddenly stopped in his tracks and gasped aloud, his eyes large as saucers.

He grinned. "Magnificent, aren't they? Do you think the Queen will like them?"

The boy was still agog. "How could anyone not, sir?"

Young Yves Boursin was indeed a genius, Henry mused. The set was a superlative example of the goldsmith's art: choker, necklace, tiara, brooch, ring, earrings, and billaments for bodice and hood, all crafted from the gemstones and fine gold Sir Richard had recovered at Woodstock. From what the Keeper of the Jewels was able to tell him, the emeralds had arrived in England two centuries ago as part of the dowry of Philippa of Hainault. Their history since then was murky but there was no question they were his by law and natural right – unlike the sapphires that had been found with them. Those had been Cata's personal property and still were, their return nothing more than simple justice.

He snapped the box shut again, pushing it aside as he considered the best time to give the emeralds to Nora. Bainbridge had suggested he wait until she presented him with a son but he didn't like that type of game-playing; it was what his father had done to his mother with her coronation, and he had no intention of copying that example. No, he would give them to her on Saturday, the Feast of St. Bartholomew; by then she should be rested enough to appreciate their beauty, and it would also give him time to show the pieces to Vecelli first so they could be painted into her official portrait. The painter had rejected the rubies he'd first chosen as being 'discordant' with Nora's colouring, and Henry was not one to blithely ignore the advice of an expert, especially not one whose advice he'd paid for.

That decided, he broke the seal of Sir Thomas Boleyn's letter, which was (as he had requested) a report on the progress of the Italian War. It had all begun last year, when Pope Julius had called on Louis of France and Ferdinand of Aragon to assist him in curbing Venetian power in Northern Italy. That had worked about as well as any random observer could have predicted, with France supplanting Venice as the preeminent power in the region and the Papal States not one jot better off than they'd been. Julius, never the brightest star in the firmament, then broke from France and Spain to ally with the victorious Venetians, gaining Modena and losing Genoa in the process.

Boleyn wrote that King Ferdinand's stroke had, no surprise, changed everything. Without the threat of Spanish troops returning to fight alongside the French any time soon the Venetians had held out an olive branch to King Louis, offering him an alliance against the Papal States in return for future assistance against the Empire. But a furious Julius hadn't waited for negotiations to conclude; the moment he heard of the offer he'd declared war against both countries and had sent the Duke of Urbino to besiege Bologna.

The old fool was going to get his arse kicked all the way back to Rome, Henry thought – although perhaps it wasn't proper to call the Holy Father an old fool, even if he was.

The news would be especially sweet for Nora, as (according to Boleyn) her father had been appointed commander of the Venetian army. Such a signal honour – for in no country was the command of the army a greater honour than in the Republic – would elevate Gonzaga's entire family, could even result in one of her cousins gaining the Papal tiara after Julius's death. Cousin to the Pope: what a boon for England that would be.

Now this was interesting: Boleyn had discovered that King Louis's wife, Anne of Brittany, was expecting a child in the autumn. If the child were born male and healthy – and given Anne's history the latter was no certainty – he would succeed Louis, and fairly soon if Boleyn's surmise as to the King's health was correct. A long regency would certainly be to England's benefit; regents tended to be more conservative than kings when it came to matters of diplomacy and war. A child king would all but guarantee the current borders between France and England for a generation at very little cost to him. It would also, Henry reflected, put paid to Wolsey's constant suggestions that Mary be offered to Louis's current heir the Duke of Valois. If Mary were to be married out of the realm, and he still wasn't sure that was a wise move, a French king would be an excellent choice; a French regent, not so much.

On the other hand, if the infant were a girl she would make an excellent Princess of Wales when the time came, God willing.

He tidied away Boleyn's letter for further reference and attended to his other correspondence. The first in the pile was a short but completely incomprehensible note from John Stile in Madrid. The man was incorrigible! He flung the paper away in anger; it was becoming obvious that he needed a better representative in the peninsula and soon.

As he'd suspected, the Bishop of Winchester's letter was yet another litany of complaints over that damned dispute with the Archbishop of Canterbury. He couldn't refuse to read Richard Foxe's letters (although he bloody well wished he could), but if he was subjected to another whinging tirade on the disposition of the Channel Islands he'd make His Grace eat his episcopal mitre with gravy.

Talking about Canterbury, the next letter was indeed from Archbishop Warham at Rome. Urbino entrenched at Bologna…significant setbacks to papal forces…Julius asking for a 'regularization' of Peter's Pence? In his dreams. He scratched out a note and put both letters aside for Wolsey to handle.

And then there was the last letter, the one he'd been expecting for weeks. He broke the Duke of Savoy's seal and unfolded the thick, creamy parchment, taking up his eyeglasses to read the tiny writing.

 _Château de Chambéry  
11 juillet 1510  
Á le Roi d'Angleterre_

 _Your Majesty,_

 _My most dear and entirely beloved cousin, we send you our most fervent greetings and felicitations._

 _We must thank Your Majesty for your letter of 13 June ultimo regarding the unfortunate death of our ambassador, M. le Baron de Doussard, of the pestilence that has bedeviled your realm this summer, and we advise that our new envoy, M. de Savarin, is to depart Nice for London as soon as his affairs are in order. Unfortunately, we have recently learned of an issue so scandalous, so deplorable that we felt it necessary to immediately acquaint Your Majesty with it lest we be accused of deliberately withholding vital information on a matter that promises to threaten the very security of Your Majesty's most noble throne._

Henry leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the desk, a grin spreading across his face. This was going to be good...

 _Your Majesty might recall that last autumn we sent a special envoy to Your Majesty's court in hopes that our dearest and most beloved sister, Philiberta, might find a home in England as Your Majesty's lady Queen. Alas, to our infinite regret our trusty servant and cousin M. le Vicomte de Charvonnex was unable to secure Your Majesty's agreement to what would have been, we are certain, the beginning of a new age of felicity and alliance between our two realms. Had Your Majesty not made the most excellent choice of our dearest cousin Eleonora of Mantua, a Princess of both the highest imaginable honour and the greatest beauty, we would indeed be desolate._

He rolled his eyes. Why use one word, he thought, when ten will do?

He read on:

 _We were advised in December that M. le Vicomte had returned home in November leaving his nephew, our young cousin M. Eustache Chapuys, in England. Some months later our representatives in Annecy reported to us that agents in the employ of an anonymous foreign master had questioned members of M. le Vicomte's household and various members of the municipal council regarding young M. Chapuys and his family. We were not particularly concerned at the time, for (as our thoughts went) our cousin was a lusty young man seeking adventure – as it is said in your realm,_ honi soit qui mal y pense _– and it was certainly none of our concern if he had involved himself in, for example, a chivalric incident with a young lady whose guardian felt it necessary to make certain inquiries._

 _However, reports have more recently arrived of a far more disturbing nature. Travellers arriving from England have related that our cousin has associated himself with the household of Catrine, Dowager Princess of Wales, whom we must remind Your Majesty is also the daughter of that most treacherous and untrustworthy of monarchs, Ferdinand de Trastámara, King of Aragon and Regent of Castile. Stories have reached our ears of meetings that reached far into the night, and even of secret assignations! In short, Your Majesty, we suspect our cousin of committing an unforgivable crime against Your Majesty's realm: I speak, of course, of espionage._

Espionage?! He threw back his head and laughed.

"Are you all right, Sir?"

He looked over to find Jack and Wolsey's page George Cavendish hovering uncertainly in the doorway. "I'm fine," he said, biting back a giggle. "Is His Grace on his way, George?"

"Y-yes, Your Majesty," Cavendish replied.

"Let me know when he arrives."

He returned to the letter:

 _Our immense respect for Your Majesty demands that we bring this situation to your immediate attention. Even if this matter has a less shameful explanation – and to our greatest regret we cannot begin to imagine how that would be possible – we cannot have our cousin and subject sticking his nose in where it is not—_

Just then he heard the door in the next chamber open and Wolsey's voice drift through the doorway. He dropped the letter on his desk and rose – king or not, he would hardly receive a bishop with his feet up – to accept Wolsey's bow, gesturing to him to take a chair and signalling to Jack to bring wine. "I trust everything's in place for tomorrow, Your Grace?" he said as he returned to his own seat.

"Yes, Your Majesty," Wolsey replied. "A few minor issues have come up as they always do, but His Grace of York and I have them well under control. We did have a question for Your Majesty regarding the order of precedence…"

They discussed the matter, eventually passing on to that evening's correspondence. "I'm this close to boxing Dr. Foxe's ears," Henry muttered. "It wasn't my decision to give the Channel Islands to the Diocese of Canterbury; that was the Holy Father's doing. But I'm not complicating our relations with Rome just because the Bishop of Winchester won't change his mind and can't change the subject."

"I'll explain the matter to him, Majesty. I assume you won't be 'regularizing' the collection and remittance of Peter's Pence as His Holiness suggests?"

"So he can have more money to fight my father-in-law?" he asked, shaking his head in incredulity. "Tell Warham…tell him to advise Julius that we have taken the matter under consideration, but that there are," and he smiled, "'significant domestic complications' that render its remittance difficult at this point in time. Julius doesn't need to know that those complications include my lady Queen braining me with a vase if I were stupid enough to agree."

Wolsey chuckled. "A wise decision, Majesty."

He then moved on to the letter from Spain. "It can't be borne any longer; Stile is an incompetent ass. Here," he said, scooping up his letter and thrusting it at Wolsey. "You tell me what he's trying to say."

He picked up the letter and peered at it. "I haven't the slightest idea. I agree that he does need to be replaced, but I only wish I could think of a man as able as Sir Thomas Boleyn…"

"I'm not asking for perfection, Tom, just competence."

Wolsey sat back in his chair, his brow creasing in thought. "How about…how about Mr. Pace?"

He considered the suggestion. Richard Pace was an intelligent man and well-read in both the common law and the civil codes of Europe, and he was also affable and easy to work with; just the man, he thought, to deal with the Viceroy. "Very well," he finally said. "I'll speak to him – he's not involved in the coronation, is he?"

"No, Majesty."

"Then ask him to attend on me tomorrow morning at ten. I'll have to instruct him on the treaty we've signed, and the situation in Italy…" He looked down at the Duke of Savoy's letter. "He'll have to be told about Cata as well in case matters progress. I've just received—"

But just then Jack returned with the strawberry tart, placing one silver plate in front of him and one in front of Wolsey. "You've tasted it?" he asked as the esquire refilled their glasses.

"Yes, sir."

"Then thank you; wait outside, please."

Once the door had closed again, Henry picked up Savoy's letter and tossed it to Wolsey. "See what you think."

He enjoyed the second serving of tart – he'd have to send his compliments down to the kitchens tomorrow – while Wolsey went through the letter, a corner of his mouth turning up at one point. He suddenly looked up at Henry with a wry grin. "His Grace is somewhat deficient in imagination. Espionage?"

"I suspect he simply never considered that a fine Spanish princess might also be a woman," he said, wiping his mouth. "But is he right? Is Chapuys really his cousin?"

Wolsey pursed his lips. "It is a…distant relationship, Majesty. My agents discovered they are tenth cousins; both are descended in legitimate lines from Count Thomas, who ruled Savoy at the end of the twelfth century. Suffice to say that no one has ever heard the young man mention it himself, although the mother is apparently quite eloquent on the matter."

"It's hardly suspicious for a lady to be proud of her ancestry," Henry argued. "Ladies often are. It's how they cope with their lack of power."

"Quite true, Majesty, and the cognatic nature of his descent eliminates him from the line of succession in any event. You've read the last page of the Duke's letter?"

He shook his head. "I suspect His Grace asked me to return Chapuys to him, but if I don't see the request and nobody tells me about it I can ignore it with a clear conscience."

At that Wolsey laughed out loud. "Then I will remain silent. Have you discussed the matter with the young man, sir?"

"Do you know," he said after a moment's thought, "I don't think we've said ten words to each other since he arrived in England. I suppose I should…well, perhaps I'll pop in on him tonight. Cousin of the Duke of Savoy…that's quite convenient, actually. If Mr. Pace does have to spill the beans to Afonso de Aragon, 'scion of one of the ruling houses of Europe' sounds better than 'penniless adventurer with a pretty face'." He sipped at his wine. "Incidentally, did you watch him at the investiture?"

"I did, sir. He quite clearly noticed the change in wording of the letters patent, but his reaction was…puzzling."

He frowned. "Was he very upset by it?"

"Strangely enough, no. He smiled, and quite broadly, and came very close to clasping Lord Richmond's shoulder. I don't believe he was acting, either; the smile was genuine and spontaneous."

That Chapuys knew about Juan was not a surprise, but to rejoice in the succession going to the boy and not a potential child of his own, however unlikely…either he was an excellent masquer or Henry's informant at Banstead had indeed been correct about him. No matter, he thought as he rose to his feet; he would make up his own mind about the man after he spoke with him. "It's late," he said to Wolsey, "and I know you'd hoped to leave for the Tower soon. Oh, before I forget: I should ask if you overheard anything else of import at the investiture."

"Nothing much about Lord Booth and Lord Ralston, sir, but I wouldn't have expected to; the elevation of such venerable court officials is fairly mundane. There were however some remarks on the other elevations."

"Such as?"

"The court seems to think you were 'kind' to return the Yorkist families' lands to them and offer titles to the young men and, of course, to Lady Warwick. As for the Duchess of Somerset, the general opinion seems to be that the dukedom was intended to reassure the Viceroy, although I did hear one courtier wonder if it would have the opposite effect."

He could only shake his head. "They mistake me every time, don't they? They see kindness in my acts of political expedience, and ulterior motives in my acts of kindness."

"Perhaps they fail to understand how strong support still is for the House of York, especially in the north," Wolsey suggested.

"Or how vital it is that I reconcile them. The last thing I need is my own Cornish rebellion – or my own Henry Tudor, for that matter." They crossed to the door. "Have a safe trip, Your Grace."

"Your Majesty."

Once Wolsey was gone, he picked up the jewel case and returned to the front room to find Jack busy copying yesterday's dictation, a smear of jam on his cheek evidence of how carefully he'd 'tasted' the tart. "Do you have a moment?" he asked the boy, smothering a grin as he locked away the jewels. "I'm off to visit someone in the Royal Apartments."

The boy jumped to his feet. "Shall I summon the guards, Your Majesty?"

He shook his head. "I'm going to go through the service corridors; the visit is a matter of some…delicacy, shall we say. I will however need someone to carry the candelabrum, if you don't mind."

He brightened. "Of course, sir."

Most of Henry's childhood had been spent at Eltham Castle, but he'd been at Westminster often enough as a boy to have thoroughly memorized the palace inside and out, and especially the secret corridors that snaked up from the kitchens and out through each storey of the Royal Apartments. They didn't of course connect directly with his private rooms – his father had wisely bricked up that corridor years earlier – but there was an access point in the main Privy Chamber itself. Within minutes he and Jack were headed downstairs to the kitchens, the yeoman guards on duty in the Chamber the only witnesses to their disappearance.

"Isn't there supposed to be a guard down here, Your Majesty?" Jack whispered to him as they reached the base of the stairwell and stepped out into the empty basement.

"You're right," he whispered back. "The Steward will be hearing about this."

He took them two stairwells over and nodded to Jack to precede him, his mind going back to what Roderick Parry, his informant at Banstead, had written in his last letter. He'd called Chapuys 'a man of tolerable wit, courage, and honour' and 'a steady horseman', which was quite possibly the highest praise the irascible old stableman had ever doled out to anyone. Henry doubted Cata would allow herself to be taken in by a fortune hunter or confidence trickster, but he didn't intend to take Parry or even Bishop Wolsey's word as to his _bona fides;_ he wanted to talk to the man himself, and without alerting him in advance. If he were dishonest or otherwise unsuitable, he was more likely to discover it by barging in on him.

They climbed the last step and passed through the doorway, finding themselves in a narrow corridor that led to the apartments in the north wing. Placing a finger over his lips, he led Jack down the hallway to a sharp left turn; signalling to him to remain behind with the candelabrum, he slipped around the corner and into the inky dark, silently approached the door, and gently pushed it open, making his way into the room—

—and he suddenly retreated, letting the door close noiselessly in front of him and tiptoeing back to Jack around the corner.

Thank God he hadn't brought his glasses.

They returned the way they'd come, down the long, winding stairwell to the kitchens and back up again. Henry could only pray that the candlelight was too dim for the boy to see the hot flush spreading up his face at breakneck speed. Why the floor hadn't opened up and swallowed him alive…he could only pray they hadn't noticed him.

Then again, perhaps they'd been beyond noticing anything at all.

They returned to the Privy Chamber, Henry nodding to the guards to let them know all was well. "Are you scheduled to be on duty tomorrow?" he asked Jack as they stepped out into the hallway.

"At nine, sir," Jack replied. "Wasn't the lady in her room?"

And that broke the spell of his embarrassment; the boy thought he'd arranged an assignation! "Sadly, no," he replied, looking around and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial level. "I assume you can be trusted to remain silent on the matter. I wouldn't want Her Ladyship's honour brought into question, and I certainly wouldn't want her husband to find out."

Jack's eyes grew huge. "N-no, Your Majesty. I'll be as quiet as a mouse."

 _I bet you will_. "Then we'll see you tomorrow."

The boy bowed and scampered off, leaving Henry to wonder how long it would take until his midnight trip in search of female companionship was known throughout the palace. It was for the best, he supposed, even considering the bitter irony of how empty his bed would actually be that night. His Vikings – and more specifically Paul Dow, the tall drink of water who normally shared his bed these days – were at the Tower readying themselves for the coronation procession, where they were to act as guards to the Queen. Paul wasn't as submissive or as pretty as Ned, but he had his charms – very manly charms, he mused as he entered the privy hall again on the way to the bedchamber. Very manly indeed…

He entered his bedchamber to find Will Compton pushing himself to his feet with a yawn. "You're taking the pallet tonight?" Henry asked. "Couldn't you strong-arm a lackey into tolerating my snoring?"

"All the lackeys are at the Tower, sir," he replied easily. "I'm afraid it's either me or Brandon, and I didn't think you wanted him brought back from Lambeth just for this."

Charles Brandon: now there was a disaster in the making. "Somewhere," he muttered, "lives a king who can rule his realm untroubled by the petty foibles of his family and friends."

"I doubt you'll find a man of any rank, high or low, whose life runs as smoothly as that. Even myself: I only have the one sister and still she runs me a merry chase now and then."

"I would think she would be leading her husband on a merry chase, not you. And sit back down again; I don't need you hovering." He took a seat across from Compton. "Have the guards been already?"

"Been and gone, and I can report no assassins lurking in the shadows or under the bed. But getting back to the point: something in Your Majesty's eyes tells me Charles Brandon isn't your main concern at the moment."

"Someday, Will, you're going to be accused of reading minds and burnt as a witch."

He grinned. "I can only read faces, sir, and don't change the topic: now out with it."

With some discomfort he explained his discussion with Wolsey – leaving out the part about Juan – and his decision to visit Chapuys that evening. "I went up there by way of the service corridors, thinking I'd catch him…"

"What?" he asked. "Counting his pilfered coins like a good little Fugger?"

"Or maybe in an assignation with a maid or…I don't know, I just wanted to catch him off guard and see if he was really as honest and honourable as my sources had led me to believe. So I crawled up the back stairs and crept up to the door and, um, he and Cata…they were…"

Compton snickered. "I take it they weren't playing chess?"

"No, they…she was standing – well, leaning against the bedpost…"

"Naked?"

"She, um…well, she had her sapphires on."

His eyes gleamed with humour. "Oh-ho! And I take it he was—"

He could do nothing but gesture downwards.

"Merciful—" He suddenly burst out laughing, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. "Oh sweet God in Heaven…"

Henry dropped his head into his hands. "You're not helping."

But he was still laughing. "I told-I told you women liked that—"

He tried to reply but the total inanity of the situation suddenly hit him and he began to laugh himself. _What an oblivious fool!_ "I-I can't even explain what I was thinking," he said after he'd wiped his eyes. "I knew you'd put them in connecting rooms, I knew they were lovers…why didn't I think…"

"Maybe," Compton suggested, a grin still lighting up his face, "you assumed she would be tired, or you didn't consider how powerful the ennoblement and the return of her mother's jewels might make her feel."

He darted a look at him. "Powerful?"

"You know how stimulating it is when a woman submits to you." He raised his voice to a womanly alto. "'Oh, my lord and master, I'll do anything you want. Take me, take me!'"

He made a face. If there was anything less 'stimulating'…

"All right," Compton muttered with a roll of his eyes, "maybe not in your case, but trust me on this: most men love it and, although this might be a novel concept to Your Majesty, some women love it too. If I'm not far wrong your lady sister is one of them."

"Will, I do not want to think about…"

"I don't just mean romantically, Harry. Nature wronged Katherine in making her a woman and you know it; if she'd been born a man – well, estaríamos hablando español para ahora."

He winced. "Which thrice-damned fool failed to teach you Spanish?"

"You did, sir!"

"And that," he pointed out with a laugh, "is why I'm a king and not a schoolmaster. Each man raised by God to his rightful place – which is something Charles Brandon needs to learn. Trying to marry his uncle's widow against her will, and a sworn celibate at that." He rose to his feet and crossed to the bed, Compton close behind him. "Did they leave my sleeping shirt out? I'd ask you to help me undress but that's hardly your job."

He held out his hand for Henry's hat. "My job as Groom of the Stool, sir, is to wipe your royal arse, something Your Majesty has never once permitted me to do. And why is that?"

He gave Will a deadpan look as he unclasped his overgown and turned around. "Because I'm not a decrepit old dotard, that's why. You can wait to indulge your fondest wish until I'm eighty and limping around on a stick; until then, let me be a proper man and handle that function myself."

"When you're eighty I'll be in my grave; I'm ten years your senior, sir, and don't you forget it." He lifted the overgown off Henry's shoulders and gave it a good shake, then draped it over the nearest chair. "About your trip tonight – if I could ask…"

He looked over his shoulder. "Go ahead."

"How did you know which service corridor to take? You could've found yourself on the business end of some jealous husband's dagger if you'd been wrong."

"It's funny you mentioned that," he said, unbuttoning his doublet. "I took Jack Arundell with me to hold the candelabrum, although I had him stay back when I reached the corridor; luckily, he didn't see anything he shouldn't have. On the way back he asked me if the 'lady' I'd had an assignation with had been absent from her room."

Compton roared with laughter. "That story will be through the palace in an hour."

"I told him to keep it in strictest confidence…so give it two." He passed the doublet to Will, then sat on the bed and eased off his shoes and hose. "To answer your question: I spent a good part of my early childhood at Westminster, and Chapuys's rooms used to be mine; before that they were my great-uncle Jasper's. In fact my first memory is of me sitting on the edge of the bed in that room beside him. I couldn't have been much more than…four, if that. He was sick, maybe on his deathbed, and I remember him holding my hand in his enormous paw…or at least it seemed enormous at the time. He couldn't have been as large a man as I remember him."

"No, he was a mountain," Will said. "Almost as tall as you are now, sir, and broad as well. He could put both hands around your…" He suddenly reddened. "Around a slim woman's waist, that is."

He didn't react to Compton's slip of the tongue – or whatever it was, for he didn't have a clue what the man had been about to say – but merely took the sleeping shirt from him and pulled it over his head, handing him his old shirt in return; whatever was bothering him would doubtless come out eventually. "Do you know if he left any by-blows?"

Compton's face suddenly turned purple. "Two daughters, from what I've heard."

Very strange: but perhaps it wasn't a memory of Uncle Jasper that was worming its way under Will's shirt collar. "You know," he began, "you've never mentioned any little likenesses of your own running around."

His lips thinned. "I had a son, but he only lived three months."

 _Oh, well done, Your Majesty._ "I'm sorry," he said aloud. "I wouldn't have asked if I'd known."

But he was shaking his head. "No, it's good to remember him. I named him Henry after you; I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all; I'm honoured. Any child is a blessing, bastard or not, but to lose an infant...it might be the most natural thing in the world, but that can't make it any easier."

"Not one bit." He tilted his head at Henry. "Something I pray Your Majesty and Her Highness never learn."

"Amen to that."

He swung his legs around on the bed and reached for the coverlet, but stopped before pulling the bed curtains shut. "Before I forget: I noticed on my way to Chapuys's rooms that the guard that's supposed to be in the kitchens wasn't there. Anyone could have made their way up to my Privy Chamber or anywhere in the Royal Apartments had they chosen to."

Compton was instantly alert. "That's not good, sir; not good at all. Let me speak with the guard at the door; will you be all right alone for a moment?"

He rolled his eyes. "I'm hardly Lord Booth, Will. I can put myself to bed."

Once Compton was gone, he pulled the bed curtains closed and snuggled down between the thick coverlet and soft featherbed. He was facing a busier day than he'd expected tomorrow; on top of welcoming Nora when she arrived back at Westminster, he'd also have to talk to Richard Pace, the Viceroy's new ambassador Don Rodrigo de Vargas, and doubtless Sir Brian Tuke over tonight's (admittedly fortuitous) security lapse. And Chapuys, he thought…he'd have to summon…

As he drifted off, the image of Cata, nude except for her jewels and glorious in her womanhood, came to mind…as she stood shoulder-to-shoulder with—

But his eyes flew open: the last memory he'd just dredged up hadn't been of Cata at all. It had been of his mother, and…but he couldn't bring it back. All he could remember was that she'd been standing right where Cata had stood, fully dressed (thank the saints), looking up tenderly at an impossibly huge man…a man whose hands were spanning her waist…

No, it couldn't be. His mother had been a saint: the most honest, most faithful woman God had ever—

 _And a fallible child of Adam and Eve,_ his mind's voice reminded him. _You are God's anointed sovereign and you take other men to bed. Cata is the best of women and she keeps a lover. Compton is a virtuous knight and he's swived half the ladies of the court. Grandmother Margaret cultivated a reputation for saintly piety and she murdered your little uncles in cold blood. No one is without sin. No one is without secrets._ _No one is without lies._

He rolled onto his side, pushing down his panic as Compton took his place on the pallet just outside the bed curtains. It was impossible; it could not be. His mind was playing tricks on him. It was a mix-up of his accidental Peeping Tom act, Compton's apparent slip of the tongue, and his nerves over Nora's coronation. That was all it was: nothing more.

 _But what if it were true?_

He hadn't told Will everything about his earliest memory – or what he'd thought at the time was his earliest memory. He'd been sitting on the bed like he'd said, had felt Uncle Jasper's massive hand clasped around his own…but he also had the feeling his mother had been standing behind him, and then there were the words the old man had rasped out: 'take care of the wee one'. Why would he say that unless…

But he blew out a breath in frustration. There could be a thousand reasons, and even if his mother had taken her husband's uncle to bed – and that was as fantastic an improbability as he'd heard in years – that didn't mean he was the old man's son.

 _Will thinks so_ , his mind's voice helpfully interjected.

And of course he did; witness how he'd reacted to Henry's innocent question.

He couldn't discount the fact either that in his family he was the outlier. Every one of his sisters and brothers – including Juan – had inherited Henry Tudor's high cheekbones, slab of a chin, and long, sloping face: all but him. He was the one with the round face, the straight little nose, the cleft chin…but that had surely all come from Elizabeth Woodville, hadn't it?

Hadn't it?

He sat up in bed and swept aside the bed curtain to find Compton looking up at him, one eyebrow raised. "Did he have a cleft chin, Will?"

"Thank God you're the King, Harry," he said, shaking his head. "You're a damn sight too smart for the Church. The answer is yes – and the answer to the question you didn't ask is that I don't know for certain…but I think so."

His breath caught in his throat. This could not be happening.

"O Lord God," he cried, looking up to the ceiling as his heart began to pound, "tell me: what am I supposed to do?"

"Harry…"

He suddenly couldn't speak a word; his mouth wouldn't obey his command. He could only scramble out of bed and drop onto his prie-dieu, his forehead pressing against the armrest. _Blessed Mother of Wisdom,_ he prayed, _what am I supposed to do with this knowledge? How am I supposed to be King if I have no right to the throne?_

For it was true: if he wasn't Henry Tudor's son he had no right to any of this, not his throne, not even his name – any name at all, for that matter. If Will was correct, if the evidence of his senses could be trusted, he wasn't his father's son and Margaret should be Queen…

But that thought stopped his mind in its tracks. If Margaret were Queen, her husband King James would be entitled to the crown matrimonial and England would be a fiefdom of the Scots. If she were excluded from the throne for having married out of the realm, Mary would be Queen – Mary, a fourteen-year-old brat whose maidenhead would surely be sold to the highest bidder by the greedy, grasping nobles who would seize power from her the moment he was gone. And what would happen to Nora and their child?

No, he had to be king whether he truly deserved the throne or not, whether he was Henry Tudor's true heir or…

But it suddenly hit him: how much right to the throne had that man really had? If Richard had usurped the throne and the line of Edward IV were the true one, his _mother_ had been the rightful heir. She, not her husband, had possessed within herself the divine right of hereditary kingship, Henry Tudor's claim of 'right by conquest' be damned. She had been the true queen. And there was no question that he was his mother's only surviving son and a king anointed in the sight of God.

Was this equivocation? Wishful thinking? Or was this the wisdom he'd begged the Blessed Virgin to bestow on him? He doubted he'd ever know for certain, no more than he'd ever truly know if Jasper Tudor was his father. But he still bent his head and prayed to the Virgin, giving his thanks and beseeching her for her protection. _Pray for me, Mary; pray for me._

He felt more than heard Compton crouch down beside him. "Harry," he began hesitantly, "I only have suspicions because I was his page at the time and I saw things that weren't easy to reconcile otherwise. If it's any consolation, I don't think anyone else has the slightest suspicion."

His eyes met Will's as they both rose to their feet. "God knows."

"He surely does, and yet here you are, the King."

Which was a very good point indeed. "Bring my Bible."

Compton didn't have to be told what to do. He retrieved the enormous book from its stand in the corner of the room and placed it on the elbow rest of the prie-dieu, then without any prompting on Henry's part placed his hand on it. "I do utterly testify and declare in my conscience," he swore, "that I will never speak or write a word to anyone other than Your Majesty on the subject of your parentage or your right to the throne, nor will I ever use my knowledge and suspicions to my own advantage or to that of anyone except Your Majesty, so help me God and by the contents of this book."

"Thank you." He flopped down in one of the chairs beside the prie-dieu, his head in his hands, while Will returned the Bible to its stand. "Why would she do it?" he asked himself out loud. "Why would she be unfaithful to her lord and master?"

"May I hazard an answer, sir?"

He looked up and gestured for Will to sit across from him. "If you have any idea."

"Did you know," he began as he took his seat, "that your mother miscarried three children before you were born?"

"Three – no, I didn't."

"There were two between Arthur and Margaret and one between her and you, and if my lady mother was right they were all sons. As for Arthur, even back then he was a sickly boy and everyone knew he'd never make old bones." He blew out a breath. "Forgive me for comparing kings and queens to horses, sir, but as the owner of an estate I've learned that sometimes when a stallion and mare are too closely related you don't get anything good out of them. Sometimes you need an outbreeding to get a healthy colt."

"And you think she knew that?"

"She kept the best stables in England, sir; she knew that better than anyone. I think it's possible she committed adultery only to get a healthy son, and she might have chosen Jasper Tudor because he wasn't that closely related to her, not being of Beaufort blood, and he was the only man in England who would never contest his nephew's throne. Sin or not, she might have thought it worth the risk if it prevented another civil war."

He barked an angry laugh. "And I guess it didn't help that my…that her husband treated her like a mindless brood mare and not a Queen. God knows I've taken his example to heart with Nora."

"She's a lucky woman, and don't think she doesn't know it."

He wasn't so sure of that, but he merely nodded. "I hope so; I've suffered enough disillusionment tonight to last the entire year. I…I'm off to bed. Let me sleep in, all right? I don't have any audiences until ten."

"Of course, sir."

He crossed to the bed and tucked himself in again, a weight pressing down on his heart. _The world is composed of lies,_ he mused: _lies we tell each other, lies we tell ourselves, lies we tell even God. But He sees all and arranges all despite our petty desires. I am the King; God must wish me so._

He wondered if Richard had ever thought the same thing.


	19. Sweet Words, So Sweetly Put (Part 1)

I'm putting a warning on this chapter for violence, language, and references to judicial torture. If you need to skip it for personal reasons PM me and I'd be happy to send you a brief description of the events. I also apologize for the delay in posting this; I was sick in bed for two weeks with a serious 'digestive issue' relating to those blasted cucumbers that were recalled early this month. Thanks, Safeway!

Due to the length of the chapter I've had to post it in two parts.

* * *

22 October 1510  
Eltham, Kent

Sister Elizabeth shivered in her fine wool habit as the wind whistled through the cracks in the window frames. Three days the drenching storm had raged; three days they'd been trapped indoors with no news from the court at the Palace of Placentia at Greenwich. Eltham might be only a few miles south of the palace and on the main road to the Kentish coast but for all that it could feel surprisingly isolated, and no more so than in a tempest like this one. She could only hope the roads hadn't been washed out and the manor lands weren't too badly damaged.

With a glance out of the corner of her eye toward the rattling windows she returned to her books. King Henry might never begrudge a farthing spent on his sister but he rightly expected those farthings to be properly accounted for, and there were many thousands of them to add up every week; a princess had to be clothed and served as befitted her rank in society and required a sound education in not just needlework, deportment, and dance but also languages, geography, and all those subjects that could be grouped under the umbrella of 'good government'. Deadly dull it was, and deadly expensive as well, but it was also essential for a girl who might rule as regent or even queen regnant some day.

Mary's father hadn't seen it that way. The old king had been far more enamoured of his purse than his daughter, placing her under the control of a poorly paid, semi-literate knight's wife whose only virtues had been her piety and her ancestry. His son, distressed by his sister's antics at the March jousts, had asked Elizabeth's half-brother John to find a new governess who could repair the damage caused by years of benign neglect; John had naturally turned to Elizabeth, and she, knowing her own limitations, had brought her close friend Sister Angelica with her to Eltham. Angelica might not possess Elizabeth's administrative skills but she was a natural teacher who had worked a near-miracle over the past six months with the wilful young girl. No longer a squealing, thoughtless child, Princess Mary was developing empathy, dignity, and even a modicum of self-control.

The bells of the village church interrupted her musings; rising from her chair, she took up her dog-eared old breviary and, closing the door of her study behind her, crossed to the chapel where she nodded to Sister Angelica and Dorothy Broughton before taking her place. It was of course not necessary for laypersons to observe the hours but Princess Mary's younger maid of honour always did, and Elizabeth briefly wondered if she had a calling for the Church. Soon enough, though, Dr. Lee arrived and she resolutely turned her mind away from the young woman's future and toward the prayers of Nones.

She returned to her study refreshed from prayer to find Meg, the upper chambermaid, rebuilding the fire. "Have we heard from Greenwich yet?" she asked as she retook her seat and reopened the account books.

"No, madam," she replied, rising to her feet and curtseying. "May I pour you a cup of wine?"

"Please."

In short order the fire was rebuilt and lit, the defunct candles replaced, the curtains closed, the flagon of wine replaced and her cup refilled to exactly the right level, a rug brought over for her comfort, and the room straightened. Meg truly was a marvel but of course she was a royal servant, at least for now, and the Tudors expected a high level of competence from everyone in their employ – including herself.

She was about to dismiss the girl with thanks when a commotion in the entryway caught their attention. Meg glanced at her; on her nod she curtseyed and left, returning a few minutes later with a tall heap of papers piled on a salver. "Letters from Placentia, madam. The messenger says the storm is diminishing."

"At last! Give me a moment." She quickly sorted the letters and passed those addressed to the teaching masters in residence and the other members of the household back to Meg. "Distribute these, please, and come back in…twenty minutes, let's say, for the Princess's correspondence."

Once the door had closed she began to go through Mary's letters. It was Elizabeth's duty to read every letter the Princess received except, of course, those from the King and Queen, and a duty it surely was: luckily the Princess understood she wasn't doing it out of prurient interest and kept any resentment she felt at the loss of privacy well hidden.

The first letter (aside from the King's, which she set aside unread) was from the Duchess of Somerset. Today's letter brought details of the Queen's quickening in September and young Lord Richmond's first roebuck, but also included a sly aside describing Sir Charles Brandon's attempt at brightening his fading blond hair with turmeric, rhubarb, and lead sulphur, which had led to Archbishop Bainbridge sending a page in search of the 'noxious stink' that had suddenly arisen in the Lambeth marshes.

She could only smile at the Duchess's depiction of the hapless knight's situation but there was more than simple humour in the story. Mary's infatuation with Sir Charles had almost entirely dissipated thanks to Her Grace's subtle campaign to make him seem not the dashing rogue of the Princess's dreams but a ridiculous fool who tested the patience of all around him. She shuddered to think what would have happened had the King (or any man, for that matter) taken the matter in hand himself and tried to scare the young woman out of her infatuation with references to the blackguard's dangerous nature. No, the Duchess had played her cards very well in this matter; soon Mary would regard Sir Charles as nothing but a strange old man whom she had once inexplicably fancied.

She refolded the letter and quickly skimmed the remainder of the Princess's correspondence. There was a simple one-page note from little Lord Richmond; long screeds signifying nothing of importance from Mary's cousins Lady Warwick and Lady Katherine Stafford; a mercifully short letter from Lady Elizabeth Boleyn (or _Lady_ Boleyn, as she insisted on being styled to flatter her husband); and a few words from oily Bishop Wolsey asking whether the sample of figured damask he'd enclosed 'favoured Her Highness's most delicate colouring' and offering to send enough to make a dress for the Christmas revels.

 _That man!_ Elizabeth fully believed Thomas Wolsey would parade himself naked in the streets with a ribbon tied around his privy parts if he thought it would bring him influence. The Princess did however have every right to accept the gift if she wished – she wasn't a prisoner, after all – and it was an especially fine sample; more importantly, even one dress's worth of cloth would make a noticeable dent in their budget. She rewrapped the little square of damask inside the letter and placed it with the rest of Mary's letters just as Meg returned to the study. "Would you take these upstairs to Her Highness?"

"Yes, madam. The Princess has asked if we've brought in sufficient provisions for the soul cakes."

"That's…a very good question." All Saints' and All Souls' Days were just around the corner, and as the largest establishment south of Placentia they would surely be besieged by peasants begging the traditional offerings. "Ask Cook if she's prepared," she said to Meg, "and if not please let me know."

"Very good, madam."

That duty attended to, she began on the letters addressed to her. The first was indeed from her brother John, currently in Westminster for the new session of Parliament. He wrote that things were going well with the two Cambridge colleges he was organizing; the King had agreed to use his grandmother's estate to fund both Christ's College and the new St. John the Baptist's College, and their old friend Tom More had agreed to ask the great Erasmus to become involved. She prayed that such godly use of the funds the old Countess had amassed through distinctly ungodly means would shorten her time in Purgatory…if she were indeed so fortunate as to have reached it.

Her mood lifted as she skipped down to the bottom of the letter, where her brother had signed it 'to my little white Bet, from Fisher John'. It was their joke; he, John Fisher, had become a fisher of men, while she, Elizabeth White, had taken the white veil and habit of a Dominican sister. With a short prayer for the soul of their lady mother she put aside the letter for more careful reading and was about to open the second letter, from Mother Agnes at Dartford Priory, when the door opened to admit the Princess herself, one of the letters clasped in her hand. "Sister," she said, her voice wavering, "might I speak with you?"

Elizabeth rose to her feet and curtseyed. "Of course, Your Highness. Does His Majesty have news?"

"This isn't from Henry," she replied. "I think it's from Charles Brandon. I haven't opened it but I recognize the seal; he wears a similar device on his armour." She passed the letter to Elizabeth with a blush. "Nan just brought it."

"Nan Wingfield?" She broke the seal and quickly skimmed the first page…oh dear. "May I ask if Mistress Wingfield said anything to you about it, Highness?"

"Only that I should forward any reply through her." She pressed her lips together, clearly retaining her composure only through sheer force of will. "She said there'd be a messenger waiting tonight at midnight. I…I—"

"Your Highness wasn't expecting a letter from Sir Charles, I take it?"

She shook her head. "I've never received one from him before, so no."

Elizabeth sighed and returned to the letter. It was fairly nondescript as love letters went; declarations of eternal affection, a mention of 'sweet words, so sweetly put', and…what was this? A secret meeting tomorrow night in Home Park to 'discuss their happy future'?

This was no mere love letter: menace lurked in these words.

"I must know, Princess," she said, looking up into the young woman's strained face. "Have you written to Sir Charles since he returned to England?"

"Never, Sister. It's…" She suddenly flushed to the roots of her hair and looked away. "I feel so foolish."

There was no doubt in Elizabeth's mind as to what had happened. She was only twenty-eight herself; she could well remember her own first infatuation and the powerful feelings she'd thought had been hidden from view but had instead been obvious to everyone. She'd been fortunate that the object of her admiration had been kind, distant, and understanding, but even so the memory of the shame and humiliation still lingered. How much worse it must be for the Princess, whose heart had been captured by such a disagreeable and dishonourable cad.

She impulsively handed the letter back to Mary. "If Your Highness would be so kind as to read his letter and provide me with your opinion."

But her self-control suddenly shattered and she crumpled into the chair behind her, tears streaming down her face. "If I hadn't…do you think he knows…"

"Highness, I'm certain you have nothing to be ashamed of. I trust you've never said or done anything that could be taken…"

"No!" she cried. "I've never written to him – I was afraid to even say anything to him last year…"

Elizabeth set aside decorum for the moment and knelt in front of Mary's chair. "Highness, almost every girl develops a _tendresse_ at your age. It's natural for your heart to search for a champion, and a young man who once enjoyed both your father's and your brother's favour must have seemed like the perfect choice."

"It did," she replied, her voice hollow.

"And now?"

She hesitated, then shook her head again. "He's changed. He used to be so handsome, but now Katherine says he's bald and fat. And he's so old!"

"And an honourable knight still?" Elizabeth asked, hiding a smile at the idea of Sir Charles being 'old'.

The girl looked away again.

She rose to her feet and held out the letter again. "Then read this without fear or shame, Highness, for you have no reason to feel either."

Mary took it back from her and read the first two pages. "He writes of how greatly he treasures the many good times we had together," she said, glancing up at her. "I…if he thinks that of me…maybe he isn't as bad as I…"

"Princess," she asked, "were those 'good times' ever truly with you?"

"I…this isn't…" She stood and started to pace again. "He was Henry's friend. I tagged along, but he only noticed me when…"

"When he desired admiration?"

Mary shot her a look. "I didn't think of it that way. I thought he liked me…but you're right. He wanted me to notice him. But isn't that how every man…"

She sighed; how did any girl survive the difficult years unscathed? "Your Highness, please: finish the last two pages."

"Very well." She read the letter, her eyes widening as she reached the fourth page. "He wants to meet with me in secret," she gasped. "I can't do that…ought I to tell my brother?"

"It would be better if Sir Richard or I sent the message," she replied, quietly pleased by the girl's willingness to take responsibility. "I will stress Your Highness's maturity in bringing the letter to me unread and in refusing to be taken in by Sir Charles's tricks."

At the last word the blood drained from her face. "Tricks…I don't think…he wouldn't hurt me, would he?"

Elizabeth chose her words carefully. "Princess, I know how badly you wish to see the good in everyone, but the good cannot always be allowed to obscure the bad. Sir Charles is, I have heard, charming, well-spoken, and highly skilled with bow, spear, and lance. But charm is often ill-used, good words may come from good education or even mimicry instead of purity of heart, and many ruffians excel at the knightly arts even though they possess none of the knightly virtues."

Her voice was thin. "I know. I know all that. But – why did I ever think he was…" And she broke down in tears again.

For the second time that afternoon Elizabeth turned her back on protocol, allowing Mary to weep into her shoulder. But these were tears of catharsis; she now realized how thoroughly her heart had deceived her mind, and it would be many years if ever before she forgot how small and ashamed she felt at that moment. God willing, she would no longer close her eyes to the evils of the world and would become more aware of the dangers of flattery and false friendship.

Once the Princess had regained a semblance of self-control Elizabeth accompanied her out into the hallway and up the stairs, unobtrusively signalling to the household's new chamberlain, Sir Richard Vere, in the first floor gallery. "Before I forget, I must thank Your Highness for reminding me of the preparations for All Souls' Day," she said as they reached the royal apartments on the second floor. "Such attention to Godly matters, no matter how small, is a sign of a true highborn lady."

Mary dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with a handkerchief. "Margaret says our lady mother took interest in such things even as Queen. I don't remember it myself, but I wish so much to be a credit to her."

"Rest assured, Princess: you are," she said. "Will you sup in state tonight, Highness?"

"I…I think I would like to be served in my rooms." She lowered her voice. "Should I say something to Nan?"

Her mind raced. "Let her believe you intend to write a letter to Sir Charles," she murmured back as they parted. "But please find a reason to send her downstairs to the tasting room in a few minutes, if you would."

Elizabeth returned to the ground floor to find the chamberlain waiting for her in the study, one toe tapping out an impatient tattoo against the leg of the chair he'd dropped into. "What is it now, Sister?"

"Mistress Anne Wingfield, the Princess's senior maid of honour," she replied, sitting behind her desk. "I apologize if she doesn't fall under your authority, but…"

He waved a hand dismissively, a sneer in his voice. "What's the chit done, got herself a brat in the belly?"

"It's more serious than that, Sir Richard. She smuggled in a letter for Her Highness from Sir Charles Brandon."

He grimaced. "That horse's arse? God's blood, what does he want?"

"An assignation, or so he says, but something tells me he's after more than that." She picked up the letter from her desk and held it out to him. "Her Highness brought me the letter. It's fairly standard as such things go—"

"I'll be the judge of that, madame," he huffed, rising to his feet and snatching it from her.

She watched as he read the letter, his brows furrowing as he reached the last page. Vere was said to be honest and scrupulous but in the week since his family had arrived at Eltham she'd discovered that he had little respect for the veil – or for women in general, as Lady Vere's badly-hidden bruises attested. It had served as a fine cautionary tale for Princess Mary, who had been shocked that an earl's grandson would do such an ignoble thing; she'd known that husbands were permitted to beat their wives, of course, but had somehow picked up the romantic notion that such abuse was mainly carried out by rustics and that knights were uniformly gentle to their ladies.

If only it were so, she mused; if only it were so.

Vere finally threw the letter back onto her desk. "God's death!" he cried. "Princess or not, I'll whip that minx until she cries for her mother. I'll get every detail out of her—"

But at that Elizabeth bristled. "That you will not do, Sir Richard. The King has given clear orders that only I am permitted to physically chastise her, and in this case I see no need. She may be high-spirited—"

Vere snorted a mirthless laugh.

"—but she is neither wicked nor deceitful. She brought the letter to me still sealed."

"But did she know it was from the Brandon boy?" he asked, glowering down at her. "I'd warrant the answer to that is no."

"And in that you would be wrong; she recognized his seal, and she told me – and I believe her – that despite what he says in the letter about her 'sweet words' she's never once written to him. I asked her to read the letter and she was genuinely horrified by the idea of meeting him in secret."

"She didn't write him?" His gaze narrowed. "She knew nothing of this?"

"She claims not to have had the least knowledge of the matter before Mistress Wingfield brought her the letter. Nan told Her Highness that a messenger would be waiting for an answer tonight at midnight."

"But the house is sealed every night at ten. How could he…" and he rolled his eyes. "He must have bribed a guard."

"At least one," she agreed, "either directly or through Mistress Wingfield. Wouldn't you throw around a little brass if you were planning to abduct the heir to the throne?"

The blood drained from his face as he picked up the letter again and rifled through the pages. "Abduct – where does he say anything about that?"

"Read the final page again, Sir Richard. Does it sound like he's testing the waters? Is he tentative, uncertain?" She shook her head. "This is the letter of a man who thinks he's set the stage and is certain he's about to reap the rewards. Why he's so confident I don't know, but that's not the point; he's risking too much – reputation, wealth, his very life – to take 'no' for an answer. If she doesn't go with him voluntarily, I have no doubt in my mind that he'll abduct her and hope the act shames her and the King into agreeing to the marriage."

His eyes met hers. "Shame? Why would they be shamed?"

"Surely you're not so naïve as not to see that her reputation would be utterly ruined by an abduction," she replied, frustration colouring her voice. "She could return to her brother the most innocent maid in Christendom and she'd still be thought a whore by everyone. No prince would marry her; the English people would thoroughly repudiate her; the courtiers would shun her. And don't think Sir Charles doesn't know that."

He swore under his breath.

"And it wouldn't destroy only her honour," Elizabeth continued. "The King would become a figure of ridicule throughout Europe. Do you think the French King or the Archduke of Austria would agree to send a daughter to a realm where princesses aren't kept safe? No? Then how will he find a wife for the Prince of Wales if and when the time comes?"

He heaved a sigh. "Of course you're right. I'll have to notify the King immediately. May I use your desk?"

She rose to her feet. "Please do. Shall I arrange for a messenger?"

"I'll send the letter with my son. I suppose you have no idea where Mistress Wingfield can be found?"

"She should be in the tasting room by now," she replied, sitting across from him in the chair he'd vacated earlier. "I asked Her Highness to make noises about writing a letter to Sir Charles for her benefit, and to send her down on some pretext or other."

"Excellent." He gave her a long, appraising stare. "You're much smarter than you look, you know."

And that, she reflected as she struggled to keep her temper under control, was likely the highest compliment he'd ever paid a woman.

It didn't take a minute for him to scratch out the note. "I suppose you'll be sending a letter to Tom Ruthall," he said as he held the end of the sealing wax over the candle flame. "Or is Fisher handling you?"

"I was instructed to write the King directly, and I will do so presently. I have no connection with Bishop Ruthall; as for His Grace of Rochester, my brother is uninvolved in the Princess's care." She rose to her feet again, ignoring Vere's quickly-stifled sharp intake of breath. "With your permission I'd like to take Sister Angelica into our confidence on the matter. Her Highness will have to be carefully guarded this evening, and—"

But he shook his head and – was that a smile? "I hadn't realized how…how highly His Majesty regarded your talents, Sister," he said. "Forgive me. Of course you may handle the matter as you see fit. In fact, I can't imagine a more formidable guard than Sister Angelica. Shall I have my son wait for your report?"

"The matter is far too urgent for your note to wait," she replied as she walked him to the door. "I can send my letter tomorrow – that is, if His Majesty doesn't travel here tonight."

He'd had his hand on the door latch, but at that he turned back, his brow furrowing again. "Do you think that possible?"

"It's quite likely, I'd say. The Princess is His Majesty's intended heir in the absence of the prince we are all praying for, and from what I've seen the King takes his responsibilities seriously." She shrugged. "Myself I do not think God would give us a Queen Regnant, but it is His will, not ours."

"Amen to that, Sister," he said with – wonders of wonders – a dip of his head. "Amen to that."

She whispered to the groom outside the door before returning to her desk, a faint smile on her lips. It was strange to think that the mere mention of her brother could impress Sir Richard Vere to the extent it had but John was indeed a bishop, if only of the tiny diocese of Rochester, and his name carried a surprising amount of weight at court. He'd been fortunate not to have fallen from favour after the truth about Margaret Beaufort had come to light, but then again he hadn't known of the murders; the shock he'd shown at the revelation was a clear sign the old Countess hadn't confessed that particular sin to him. Such a tar-black soul, to have lurked under that spotless white veil…

Elizabeth drew out a new quill and trimmed it as she composed her letter to the King in her head. Despite what she'd just said to Sir Richard it would be necessary to provide His Majesty with a written record of her conversation with the Princess as quickly as possible, but protecting her from Sir Charles and scandal was even more vital. Were Charles to abduct her…she supposed that if the cad did force her into marriage, by rape or otherwise, the King would soon make her a young widow and likely by his own hands, but it would be far better to prevent—

The door suddenly swung open again to admit Angelica, whose evident annoyance at the interruption of her vigils evaporated the moment she caught sight of Elizabeth's face. "The groom said – whatever is the matter, Bet?"

"It's the Princess." Elizabeth motioned her friend to a chair and described the letter and Mary's reaction to it. "We don't know if the guards are involved, of course, but if they are they might merely have been bribed to leave a door unguarded…"

"Or they might have been paid to carry her off against her will," the younger woman finished, her broad hands clutching the arms of the chair. "And you need me up there with her."

"At least until we hear from the King. I suspect he'll be here as fast as his horse can fly."

"Or as Mother Agnes would say, 'as fast as God can inspire him'." She darted a glance at the door. "How did Sir Richard take it?"

"He's a man of action, I'll give him that," she replied. "He has things well in hand, although he was fairly dismissive until I mentioned my connection to John in passing. Perhaps you could contrive to work your father's name into the conversation."

Angelica rose to her feet with a laugh. "Bet, you know I'm not proud. Let him find out after he's spent a year or two despising me."

"You should have seen his countenance…which reminds me: you might wish to keep the Princess in her rooms tonight."

She immediately sobered. "Do you think Brandon will attempt to lure her out?"

She shook her head. "Sir Richard is planning to question Nan Wingfield and perhaps the guards, and I don't want the Princess to hear anything untoward. I don't think she understands even now how serious the matter could be, and if Sir Richard uses more than his copious 'charm' to extract information from them I'd rather Mary didn't hear."

"Charm indeed," she muttered. "She's such an ingenue; she'd never understand."

They shared a look. A princess, like a cloistered nun, could be excused such naïveté, but teaching sisters like them lived too much in the world to have any delusions as to the intentions of men like Charles Brandon or the steps necessary to stop them. Mary wasn't the first girl they'd taught who had attracted unwanted attention, only the highest born: but any father or guardian would do what was necessary to protect his chick from the fox. If in this instance that meant torture, so be it.

Once Angelica had left for the Princess's rooms Elizabeth returned to her letter to the King, looking up only when Meg arrived with her supper. "Is it five o'clock already?"

"Almost ten past, madam. Cook apologizes for the delay, but there was a disturbance in the tasting area earlier and the maids had to clean up." She put the tray down and filled her cup with ale, but instead of leaving she hovered uncertainly by the side of the desk. "If I may…"

"Yes?"

"Cook said that Mistress Wingfield did something very wrong and Sir Richard was looking into it," she all but whispered, leaning toward Elizabeth. "Are you sure she wasn't covering for her beau?"

"Nan has a…you mean she has a lover?"

"Nick Sykes, madam. He's one of the guards, and a sly one at that. They're always going off together. He's seeing Kate the scullery maid too, only Nan doesn't know."

She didn't distrust Meg, of course; she was a honest servant who had no reason to dislike or resent Kate the maid or even Anne Wingfield. If anything, both women were likely consumed with envy over her. A beautiful tanner's orphan, she had somehow caught the eye of a young newly minted Lancashire solicitor, and by this time next week she would be the wife of Will Finch and well on her way north to her new life. No, Elizabeth didn't doubt Meg believed she was telling the truth, but she did wonder if the girl had interpreted the facts correctly. A well-bred girl like Nan would never take a spotty, low-born guard like Nick Sykes to bed, but she might trick or even bribe him into doing her bidding. "Thank you for telling me," she finally said. "I hate to send you into the lion's den, but would you advise Sir Richard of this immediately? I would go myself but he might have other questions for you."

Her face blanched but she held up her chin. "Yes, madam."

Supper was ashes in Elizabeth's mouth that night; alert for the slightest noise from the courtyard or hallway (or, if she were to be honest with herself, the basement), she couldn't relax enough to enjoy or even much taste the ham, bread, and stewed apples Meg had brought. But food was fuel, as Mother Agnes would say, and it was her duty before God not to starve herself.

She had just put down her spoon when the sound of hoofbeats drifted up from the courtyard outside. She was on her feet in a flash, dumping the tray on a side table before rushing into the hall, only to drop into a deep curtsy as the King entered along with at least a dozen Yeoman Guards and, unexpectedly, the Duchess of Somerset. "Your Majesty; Your Grace."

"Where's Mary?" he cried, gesturing for her to rise. "Is she all right? Has she been harmed?"

"She's well and safe, Your Majesty, and in her apartments. Sir Richard—" But before she could get out another word he had disappeared up the stairs.

"He's been beside himself ever since the note came," the Duchess said to her, accepting her curtsy with a gracious nod as a groom took her muddy cloak. "Have they found the guards involved yet?"

"I have yet to be informed of any developments, Your Grace. May I accompany you upstairs?"

"Thank you."

They headed up the curving grand staircase, a long-nosed young man bristling with weaponry and fierce glares close behind them – the Duchess's bodyguard, she assumed. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed Meg slip out of the service door, her face as wan as it had ever been but apparently unharmed, praise God. Not that Sir Richard was fool enough to waste time abusing an innocent maid at this point, but the Princess's safety had to take precedence over a maid's comfort – or her own, for that matter.

Once they'd reached the first floor gallery Katherine stopped, turning to her with some hesitation. "I know you weren't expecting us…or were you?"

How puzzling, Elizabeth thought; the Duchess's accent wasn't weaker, but it had drifted ever so slightly toward the French since the last time they'd spoken. "We did anticipate His Majesty's arrival, Your Grace…"

"But not mine," she finished. "I'm actually here at the Queen's request; we only arrived at Placentia an hour before Sir Richard's note arrived, and – well, she could see the dangers as clearly as anyone. How is Mary, truly?"

"Her Highness is physically unharmed, Your Grace, but deeply distressed by Sir Charles's letter. She feels great shame at having inadvertently given him reason to think his suit might be favoured."

Katherine snorted. "He would have tried it even without encouragement: he's in the most desperate straits. I only hope…but let's not court trouble before it arrives on its own. If Mary allows it I'll sleep in her rooms tonight, but I'd be grateful if you could find a nearby berth for my Master of Horse, Monsieur Chapuys."

The young man who'd been following them bowed to her, every inch the dignified courtier despite his tender years. "I don't wish to be any trouble, Sister," he said. "A pallet in the servants' hall would be more than adequate."

"I think we can do better than that. George," she said, turning to the groom stationed near the staircase leading up to the royal apartments, "have Sir Reginald's old rooms made ready for the gentleman, please."

"Yes, madam."

The three of them continued up the stairs to the royal apartments on the second floor, the Duchess's man staying behind to keep watch at the head of the staircase. "The King has brought twenty yeoman guards," Katherine told her as they entered the north wing. "I only hope it's enough; for all his faults Sir Charles is a remarkable fighter, and Eltham isn't an easy house to guard."

"Let us pray it doesn't come to that, Your Grace," she said. "I can only wonder what's got into his head. He's not a churl, and even if this new Act of Parliament makes it difficult for him to take full possession of his late wife's lands – may God have pity on her soul – he has his own inheritance and his first wife's fortune, doesn't he?"

The Duchess's face was grim. "He's spent every farthing and mortgaged every acre to the hilt. When he was in favour he never denied himself the smallest luxury no matter how unnecessary, and now that he isn't in favour he has no capital left and his income is eaten up by interest and upkeep of his lands. Desperation will drive a man to madness – or crime, which amounts to the same thing."

That it did, Elizabeth had to agree.

They stopped in front of the Princess's apartments where one of the burly yeoman guards flanking the half-open door bowed to the Duchess. "Begging Your Grace's pardon, but His Majesty has given strict orders to—"

"Never mind that, Piers!" the King's voice boomed from inside. "Let her in!"

With an embarrassed shrug the guard stepped aside and the tiny Duchess swept by him like a mighty carrack passing a lighthouse, Elizabeth feeling very much like a battered little dinghy following in her wake.

His Majesty was indeed in a fine snit, circling Mary as Angelica looked on helplessly from the corner. "Tell me you never once encouraged him," he was demanding. "Tell me you've never given him your favour at the joust, or sent him a letter, or…"

"No, never!" she got out through her tears. "I was…I was too afraid."

"Of what? Of being swept away by—"

A pointed stare from the Duchess silenced him. "Your Majesty," she said in a low, soothing voice as she rose from her curtsy, "would you allow me to ask a question of Her Highness?"

"Cata, I don't…" He blew out a frustrated breath. "If you think it'll help."

"I thank Your Majesty." She knelt in front of the terrified girl. "Mary, tell us: when was the last time you actually saw Sir Charles?"

"At the Christmas revels before Father died," she replied in a shaky, uncertain voice.

"And did he pay you any special attention?"

She shook her head. "Nan told me last week that he wanted to but he was afraid of Father; we didn't exchange a word."

"He should have been afraid," the King growled. "He should be afraid now. And before that?"

"I don't remember," she said, looking up into his face. "Maybe when he and you visited Eltham the summer before."

Katherine suddenly gave Elizabeth a puzzled look from over her shoulder. "Sister, who is this Nan?"

"Mistress Anne Wingfield, Your Grace," she replied. "Her Highness's senior maid of honour."

"Wingfield…she's Sir Charles's cousin, isn't she?" She exchanged a brief glance with the King before turning back to Mary. "Does Nan ever mention Sir Charles?"

"She and Mother Guildford used to talk all the time about how handsome and chivalrous he was and how well he sat a horse." She shot her brother a guilty look. "They made him sound like the greatest knight in Christendom, but then he cheated at the joust last winter, and then Mother Guildford left, and…"

"And?" the Duchess prompted.

"I got tired of all the praise and begged Nan to stop, but then she started up again last month and she wouldn't listen to me when I told her I didn't want to hear it." She turned her head away, tears streaming down her face. "I'm so afraid! I don't want him to be hurt but I couldn't stand if he touched me…"

The King's face suddenly cleared; he gestured for the Duchess to move aside and crouched down in front of the young girl himself, one of his spidery hands resting gently on her left shoulder. "Moll, I don't know if you have it in your heart to forgive me, but I should never have yelled at you. I was wrong and I apologize."

"You are the King," she sniffled, unwilling to meet his gaze. "You must do as you will."

"There is a vast gulf between what I may do and what I should do," he countered. "I shouldn't have assumed you were involved – and that's the least of my faults in this debacle." He looked up. "Sister Angelica, would you take Her Highness to her bedchamber? She's had a long day and I think she could do with some rest."

Angelica curtseyed. "Your Majesty, Your Grace."

Once the door had closed behind them, the King pushed himself back to his feet and turned to Elizabeth, his young face lined with worry. "You'd better tell me everything."

She repeated the events of the day, interrupted only by a few pertinent questions from the King and Duchess. "So you believe Mary had an inclination toward Sir Charles at one point?" the King asked after she was done, his face flushing for some reason.

"It was fading by the time Sister Angelica and I arrived, but yes. All healthy girls develop infatuations at that age, Your Majesty, but they usually die as quickly as they bloom."

"Unless they're stoked by a foolish governess and a maid of honour who happens to be cousin to the gentleman in question." He crossed to the window and leaned against the sill, his eyes on the golden half-moon looming low in the south. "This Nan, where is she now?"

"I understand she's with Sir Richard, Your Majesty."

"Fetch him."

"And return with him please, Sister," the Duchess added.

She curtseyed again and backed out of the room, dread pooling in the pit of her stomach. If the King blamed her for this mess he could banish both her and her brother to the far reaches of the realm or even send them to the Tower. But what could she have done? She had no power over the servants and she hadn't chosen either of the maids of honour: she had no way of knowing what they did in their off hours or whom they associated with. But if she were to be the scapegoat she would have no choice but to accept the blame; one did not fight a king, even at the peril of one's life.

At the end of the hall she motioned for a groom to accompany her with a candle down the back stairs to the basement. "I've been sent by the King for Sir Richard," she said to the yeoman guard outside the chamberlain's office door. "Is he still downstairs?"

"He is, madam. If you'll wait here?"

"Of course."

It was a few minutes before Vere emerged, mopping his damp forehead with a fine linen handkerchief. "Where is he?"

"In the Princess's sitting room with the Duchess of Somerset. I'm to return with you."

They climbed the stairs, the groom leading the way, and stepped out into the torchlit hall where she examined him out of the corner of her eye in the brighter light. "You might wish to tuck in your cuffs, if only for the Duchess's sake," she murmured as they approached the door.

He frowned at the red stain marring the embroidery of the left cuff, nodding his thanks as he tucked the fabric into the sleeves of his doublet. "Sykes's."

As if it mattered.

The King motioned for them to rise almost as soon as they had made their obeisance. "Have you discovered anything further, Sir Richard?" he asked.

"I have, Your Majesty. At least two members of the Princess's guard and two servants, a kitchenmaid and a laundrymaid, have been corrupted by Mistress Wingfield, although none is aware of any plans to forcibly abduct Her Highness. They were operating on the understanding that the Princess wished to escape her confinement," and he shot an apologetic look at Elizabeth, "and elope with Sir Charles voluntarily."

"Elope!" the Duchess exclaimed.

Vere nodded. "I'm afraid so, although I have discovered evidence pointing to the possibility of abduction. The laundrymaid told us she was to supply a cart should the Princess, and I quote, 'wish to conceal herself to evade detection'. The kitchenmaid admitted being asked to provide a 'calming draught' which was to be administered tomorrow after supper."

"Laced with a Moorish sleeping potion, no doubt," the Duchess added. "He'd never depend on her servants to do his dirty work; he'd get Nan Wingfield to do that."

Elizabeth's mouth dropped open. All this happening under her nose and she'd been none the wiser. How oblivious had she been?

"The guard Sykes also admitted to letting in a messenger – not always the same one – every other night for the past three weeks by one of the doors opening onto the knot garden," Vere added. "The messenger usually met with Mistress Wingfield for less than five minutes before departing."

"So not an assignation," the King mused. "Have you confirmed any of this with the lady?"

He shook his head. "Everything I've discovered is from the servants' testimony."

"Obtained through violence?" Katherine asked.

"With respect, Your Grace, we cannot allow womanly tenderness—"

"I do not criticize, Sir Richard," she said, interrupting his offended harrumph. "Naturally the truth must be discovered by any means possible. My concern is that the servants are not likely privy to the entire plot and may invent details if they think it will end their suffering. Has Mistress Wingfield confessed?"

"She stands mute, madam," he replied, mollified. "Naturally we can't interrogate her without His Majesty's permission."

"We don't torture the gentleborn in this realm," the King said. "Take her to the Tower instead, and let the rats and fleas do what we cannot."

But Vere pursed his lips. "The tide's against us, sir; by the time she reached the Tower Sir Charles would be on our doorstep. Perhaps if Your Majesty were to confront her yourself…"

The Duchess raised a hand, interrupting the conversation. "If you would be so kind as to permit me to speak with her tomorrow, Your Majesty, I might be able to discover something."

"Cata…"

"Your Grace…"

But she refused to demur. "I am confident Sir Richard is more than capable of interrogating the servants and capturing Sir Charles's messenger when he arrives tonight, but he is a man and as such he doesn't understand what would truly unnerve a gentlewoman such as Anne Wingfield. Threats of violence – even of the worst kind – will never strike fear in a lady's heart as strongly as threats of loss of honour, if only because the latter is more easily imaginable. She has no dowry, if I recall correctly?"

"I believe so," the King said – but what could explain the extraordinary look in his eyes?

"Which means she doesn't possess the resources to survive dishonour. My plan is this, Sir Richard – if His Majesty approves, of course: you will visit her tonight and lay out what could happen to her if she does not speak – the Tower, shame, humiliation, even death. Then tell her you will return at noon tomorrow for 'further discussions'. I presume you have her confined?"

"In her room, yes."

She shook her head. "Have her taken to a secure room in the basement before you speak to her. She may have a cot and blanket – and of course water and a bucket for her waste – but no fire, no candles, no food, and no company. Let her spend the night cold, hungry, and alone in the dark thinking on her sins and imagining the mice scratching in the walls as the hungry rats of the Tower. At eight tomorrow Sister Elizabeth and I will visit her—"

Elizabeth turned her head, startled. "Madam?"

"—and she and I will commiserate on her blighted future, the dangers the Tower poses to an attractive young virgin, and similar matters. I understand, Sister, that your priory is home to many natural daughters of aristocratic ladies and gentlemen."

"It is, Your Grace," she said, suddenly understanding, "and also to many ladies who were themselves deceived by men, or worse."

But Vere was skeptical. "Do I have this right? Does Your Highness believe that this…show of kindness—"

"Of commiseration, Sir Richard, not kindness."

"—will somehow lead her to unburden herself to me later on?"

"No," she replied. "She will unburden herself to me."

The King suddenly laughed. "Your father's old trick! Are you sure you can carry it off?"

Her lips thinned. "I don't know, but in all honesty I don't see what other choice we have. We can't know Sir Charles's intentions – or if any other servants have been turned, for that matter – unless she tells us, and we don't have the time or the resources to interrogate every servant. And the house can't be kept perfectly secure even with the extra guards. No offence intended, Sir Richard."

"None taken, Your Highness," he replied. "I've had the same thought more than once over the past week. The moat is silted up and the lower floors are a rabbit warren with dozens of entry points; a fine playground for my sons, perhaps, but simply not secure."

"Who would have thought it needed to be," the King muttered. "I'm still not sure your tactic is quite appropriate, Cata."

"This not an innocent young lady tricked by a cad," she countered, "and certainly not a victim of any kind of violence. Mistress Wingfield has been influencing Mary for over a year now; perhaps Sir Charles had been planning all along to annul his second marriage and viewed Lady Brandon's death as more fortunate than tragic."

"Which would explain why he barely mourned her," he said. "Very well; we'll do it. Sir Richard, Sister, I'll leave you to your duties. Please let me know if anything happens overnight. Oh!" he added as they bowed and began to back away. "One last thing. Any guilt that does not attach to Sir Charles or his agents in this matter is entirely mine. I chose Mistress Wingfield as a maid of honour; I chose to leave Mary in Lady Guildford's care for almost a year after I succeeded to the throne. I won't be making either of you my scapegoat in this, so please rest easily."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," they chorused, the relief patent in their voices.

He shook his head. "No, thank you."

Sir Richard gave Elizabeth a sidelong look once the door had closed behind them. "Praise God for that. My life's been passing before my eyes for the past three hours, and I trust I wasn't the only one."

"You were not; I was already composing my apology to John. I only wonder how the Duchess will handle Nan."

He snorted a laugh. "I forgot she was wily old Ferdinand's daughter. Do you think she can pull it off?"

"I don't know. I've only met Her Grace half a dozen times and I'm far from an expert on her talents."

"Nor am I...but if I were a gambling man I wouldn't bet against her."

They reached the top of the main stairs, where they exchanged a nod with the Duchess's man still standing guard. "Her Grace intends to remain with the Princess tonight," she said to him. "May I have a groom see you to Sir Reginald's rooms, and may we have supper sent up for you?"

"That would be kind," he replied in his curious accent – almost French, it was, and…

Oh my.

"However," he continued, "I would first like to ask you, Sir Richard, if there are any service corridors leading up to the Princess's apartments. It occurs to me that Sir Charles might know of them even if they aren't in use."

They discussed the matter as Elizabeth listened with one ear, her emotions in a whirl. If this man were nothing more than the Duchess's Master of Horse, why had her accent changed to mirror his? A highborn woman would hardly spend so much time with one of her servants…unless he were more than a servant.

She didn't like that idea at all. If the Duchess were not the moral woman she purported to be she shouldn't be allowed to even communicate with the Princess, let alone be involved in her rescue from Sir Charles. Such wantonness in a great lady was despicable, shameful! She would have to tell the King – but that would mean braving the lion's den again, and this time she might not survive. Perhaps an anonymous letter would serve her purpose better…

By then she and Sir Richard had left the young man and were walking through the gallery on their way to the staircase leading to the ground floor. "I have to prepare Mistress Wingfield's dungeon," he said with a wry grin as they reached the landing, "and have her moved. Would you mind confirming for me that His Majesty's apartments are ready?"

"Not at all." She looked around, then leaned toward him. "That Frenchman: he's the Duchess's Master of Horse?"

He made a face. "Officially, Sister. In truth he instructs her in hand-to-hand combat and defence and acts as official chaperon during her travels."

"Defence!"

"It's not unheard of among Spanish princesses," he continued, lowering his voice. "From what I've heard, and this is confidential, he's actually the King's man sent to watch over Her Grace. He's quite good family, they say; distant relation of the Queen."

That put a different complexion on matters entirely. If the man did instruct the Duchess – and from the little she knew of defence, such instruction was usually in French – she might very well pick up his accent; some of her charges had certainly picked up her own Yorkshire twang. And if he enjoyed royal favour…

Sir Richard left her with a dip of his head – how polite he'd become over the past few hours! – and she continued downstairs to the kitchens, her mind on the catastrophic mistake she'd come so close to making. It was that old fault of hers, pride, raising its sinful head again. Pride had nearly convinced her that only she recognized the 'truth' of the matter when in fact she had once again come to a conclusion without sufficient evidence and, arguably worse, had made herself censor of a highborn woman's morals. She could only imagine the outcome had she written that letter. _Know your place_ , she reminded herself; _don't jump to conclusions_.

* * *

Continued in Part 2...


	20. Sweet Words, So Sweetly Put (Part 2)

Part 2

23 October 1510  
Eltham, Kent

It was almost midnight before everyone who had arrived from Greenwich had been fed and housed and she could return to the room she shared with Sister Angelica on the third floor. She dropped into bed exhausted, but as soon as she lay down on the soft feather mattress Meg was in the room shaking her shoulder. "Sister Elizabeth!"

"What – Sir Charles?" she mumbled. Hadn't she just gone to—

"The Duchess of Somerset wishes to break her fast with you this morning, madam, in about thirty minutes. You slept right through the bells for Prime."

She swung her feet over the edge of the bed and ran aching fingers through her short-cropped hair. "I must have been exhausted," she said, "and by the looks of it you've had as troubled a night as I. Did Sir Richard bother you again?"

She made a face. "It wasn't that, madam, not exactly. They put Nick Sykes and Hal Rossiter in the room next to ours, and Nick moaned all night long. Bet Lawson says his hands were all bloody and bandaged this morning."

"I'm not surprised. You must be pleased to be escaping this madhouse."

"I'm happy to be marrying, madam, but I'll miss all of you."

A diplomatic answer indeed.

Twenty minutes later, freshly washed and wearing her best robes and wimple, Elizabeth descended to the second floor and presented herself at the door to the Princess's rooms. "I've been summoned by the Duchess of Somerset," she said to one of the guards.

"You're expected, Sister," he said as he and his fellow guard uncrossed their pikes – the King was indeed serious about security – and let her into the room, where the Duchess was just sitting to table.

"Your Grace, good morning."

Katherine laughed, gesturing for her to rise. "I don't know what's good about it, Sister; I haven't slept on a pallet since…well, for quite some time now. Please, have a seat."

She obeyed her despite her intense discomfort at sitting at table casually with a woman so highly born, and especially one she had slandered in her heart – or, better put, to God – only last night. There was also no maid, so she wasn't sure if she was expected to serve or—

"I hope you don't mind if we serve ourselves," the Duchess said, as if reading her mind. "I find myself often dining alone or _en deux_ at home, and since my incarceration at Durham House my stomach takes exception to hovering servants." She cut open a small loaf of manchet bread and buttered it. "It isn't grand fare, I'm afraid, but please help yourself."

The ale had already been poured, so she reached out hesitatingly to take one of the smaller loaves and a slice of beef. "Did Sir Charles's messenger arrive last night, Your Grace?"

"The guards captured him in the knot garden; Sir Richard has been discussing the matter with him ever since. Do you think Sir Charles intends to rape Mary?"

She almost choked on her ale. "Your Grace…"

"I doubt it's his primary objective," she continued, unfazed. "He's a courtier; he craves admiration like lesser men crave strong drink, so doubtless he hopes Mary will lie with him voluntarily. But if he's desperate enough for her dowry – and stupid enough to think he'd get it – he might force the matter and depend on shame to silence her."

"Most women would find such an attack shameful."

The Duchess lifted her eyes to hers. "But not you."

She shook her head. "I have seen far too many innocent virgins defiled by violence, Your Grace, to think poorly of them. Society might deem them ruined but I do not, and I am certain God does not."

"I'm pleased, if not surprised," she said, "given that your priory has a reputation for providing shelter to victims of such violence. If the worst does happen or even if there's an attempt, Mary will need the support of honest, pious women who won't judge her. His Majesty would not see her shamed, nor would I." She sat back, her expression uncertain. "There is one thing that puzzles me. Nan Wingfield has been with Mary since Henry succeeded to the throne, long before Sir Charles fell from favour and lost his wife. Why, then, did she praise him from the very start? I can't accept that he's been planning this for a year and a half; he's never shown that kind of foresight before."

"Perhaps she simply hoped that a word from Her Highness would bring him added favour with the King," Elizabeth suggested. "If he were to receive more lands, he would have more money for her dowry."

"You mean as his cousin. I can't help but wonder, though, if she's also his mistress."

She blinked. "His—"

"It would be natural for a naïve girl to indiscreetly praise her lover," the Duchess pointed out. "In fact, it would be unusual if she didn't. Perhaps this isn't the intricately planned, year-long scheme we first thought it was; it might be a crime of opportunity instead. Nan must have known he was running out of money; she might have recently told Sir Charles that she'd set the stage for his wooing with all her earlier praise and convinced him that Mary and her dowry would be putty in his hands."

"Which would explain why she'd begun to talk him up again."

She nodded. "He'd never marry Nan – with no dowry, he wouldn't think her worth the cost of the dispensation they'd need even if he could afford it – but if he married a wealthy heiress he'd be able to support her behind his wife's back."

"But why would they take the risk on Her Highness?" Elizabeth asked, forgetting herself. "The realm is full of young heiresses, none of whom are as well-guarded."

"I don't know," the Duchess replied with a sigh. "I suppose we'll find out during our interrogation."

Elizabeth froze. _Our_ interrogation?

"When one is a prince or princess, at least in Spain, one learns how to extract information. My father, may God give him comfort, won more battles by his wits than his sword." She put down her cup. "Tell me about Mistress Wingfield. What is she like?"

She thought for a moment. "Bland, Your Grace, and agreeable. She never speaks up, never has an opinion, never gets angry."

"The perfect young lady: too perfect, in fact. Is she Mary's only maid of honour?"

"Her Highness has two, madam. The other is Dorothy Broughton."

"Margery Seymour's niece. I wish I'd known; Margery's at Placentia, although in her condition she wouldn't have been fit for a moonlit gallop through a muddy park. Do you think she's involved in this treason?"

"The only involvement Dot has is with God, Your Grace," she replied, repressing a shiver at the Duchess's last word. "She yearns only for the veil."

"And knowing her family, she'll never be allowed it." She tapped her long, elegant fingers against the table top, her eyes unfocussed as she thought. "Please speak to the guards at the door and have her brought here immediately," she finally said.

Elizabeth complied with the order, returning to the table to find her cup and plate refilled. "We can't approach Nan Wingfield on empty stomachs," Katherine said as she loaded her own plate with food. "We need to be alert to the slightest break in her resolve."

"Resolve, madam?"

"She seems to pride herself on tricking others; she might even assume that as a gentlewoman she won't be questioned. That might put her off guard." She sipped at her ale. "I'm far from thinking myself adept at my father's techniques, although I've made use of them among my staff with varying results. All I ask of you is this: that you do your best to keep your face clear of emotion, that you listen carefully to every word we say, and that you not speak unless you consider it necessary. If you must—"

Just then Dorothy Broughton arrived. "Your Grace."

"I'm sorry to rouse you so early, Mistress Broughton," Katherine said, gesturing her to rise from her curtsy, "but I have a few questions for you. May I call you Dot?"

"If Your Grace pleases."

Katherine ran a shrewd eye over the trembling young lady. "What have you heard of yesterday's events, Dot?"

"I-I heard that someone tried to kidnap Her Highness, madam," she replied with some trepidation. "I went up last night to serve her and the guards sent me away, but when I went up to my own room the guards wouldn't let me in until almost midnight. When I was finally allowed in everything had been disturbed and Nan's bed had been torn to shreds. She isn't involved in this, is she?"

The Duchess didn't answer her question. "You share a room with her?"

"I suppose so, although one of us always sleeps with Her Highness. She's never alone."

"And do you ever serve her together?"

"During the day, yes, Your Grace. At night only one of us sleeps in her room along with a housemaid and Sister."

"That's Sister Angelica?"

Elizabeth cut in. "We take turns, madam, as do the maids of honour."

She nodded her thanks. "And have you ever heard Nan mention Sir Charles Brandon to the Princess?"

"Sometimes I have…oh no, he isn't – they must have it wrong! He wouldn't…"

The Duchess could have been a rock for all the emotion she was showing. "Why do you say he wouldn't?"

"Because Sir Charles loves Nan, Your Grace, and they're planning to marry!"

Elizabeth had never bit her lip harder than at that moment.

"How do you know that, Dot? Did she tell you?" Katherine asked, her voice insistent but soft.

She turned her head aside, a furious blush rising on her cheeks. "I found a letter to her from him almost two weeks ago."

"What did it say: that he loved her?"

"Not in those exact words, madam, but he wouldn't have written what he had if he didn't intend to marry her!"

"So the letter was quite personal?"

"No – yes – I mean, there wasn't anything really awful in it, but he did write that he couldn't wait to kiss her again – I mean on her…" and she lifted a hand to her chest. "He wrote that he was happy their plans were almost complete, and they would be together forever soon and all their troubles would be over. He must mean to marry her, Your Grace! He can't have…"

But the Duchess silenced the girl with a look. "Has Mistress Wingfield ever spoken of Sir Charles to you?" she asked. "I mean when Her Highness isn't around."

She paused, her brow knit in concentration. "Never, madam, and now that I think of it never when one of the Sisters were with us. I suppose she didn't want them to know, but…but if she didn't want anyone to know, why would she mention him around Her Highness?"

Katherine suddenly rose to her feet, Elizabeth close behind her. "Thank you, Dot. Sister Elizabeth, do you have any questions?"

"One, if Your Grace will permit?" At her nod, she continued. "Dot, where did you find the letter from Sir Charles?"

"On the floor of our room, at the foot of my bed, Sister. If it'd had Nan's name on it I wouldn't have read it but it wasn't addressed to anyone; I thought it had been put on my bed the evening before and I hadn't noticed it." She shook her head. "I can't believe a man would write such things if he didn't—"

"Thank you, Dot," the Duchess cut in. "That will be all – and please don't speak a word of this to anyone. Would you be so kind as to find Sir Richard and ask him to attend us?"

She curtseyed again. "At once, Your Grace."

As the door closed behind the terrified girl, the Duchess dropped back into her chair as if she were completely drained of strength; Elizabeth moved to the wine flagon on the side table and poured her a large cup of the dark, rich liquid. "Is Your Grace well?" she asked, holding out the cup. "Shall I send for the physician?"

She waved away the wine. "I am indeed well, only distressed by Mistress Broughton's naïveté. Why do the English keep their daughters so sheltered that they cannot recognize the most obvious danger?"

"They believe knowledge breeds immorality, Your Grace. The New Learning especially terrifies them."

"Then they are fools," she murmured. "Education teaches a girl why she must be chaste; it gives her a sound basis for a moral life. Speaking of fools, I wonder which troubles – plural – Sir Charles was referring to. Didn't you find that strange?"

She frowned. "Yes, Your Grace, but I was more puzzled by Sir Charles's letter to Her Highness. He wrote of 'sweet words'. If she'd never written to him, whose words was he—"

But at that moment Sir Richard entered the room. "Did the messenger know anything?" the Duchess asked him as he rose from his bow.

"Nothing, Your Grace, that we didn't already know. He wasn't told what was in the letter he carried." And he held out a folded sheet of paper.

Katherine took it from him, her eyes flying over the few words scribbled on it. "He's at Home Park already," she murmured, glancing up at Sir Richard. "I trust you've sent men to apprehend him?"

"We received reinforcements overnight from Greenwich and Westminster, madam, and I've sent men to all three of the deer parks in the event he learns we've discovered his scheme and tries to evade us."

"Well done. For what it's worth, Dorothy Broughton saw a letter from Sir Charles to Nan that clarifies matters somewhat; it seems that Nan is his mistress and has been trying to influence the Princess to look kindly upon him for mercenary reasons. Did you discover any other letters from Sir Charles among her possessions?"

He frowned at the news. "None. In fact, we didn't find any letters at all."

"She must have burnt them," she murmured. "Would you take us down to her, please?"

They left the Princess's rooms and descended to the basement, the Duchess's Master of Horse – Chapuys was his name, Elizabeth now remembered – joining them at the top of the grand staircase. As they reached the basement he whispered something to the Duchess in a dialect of French she didn't understand; she gave no sign she'd heard other than a flicker of her eyes.

They stepped out into the basement, where Sir Richard led them to a door near the main kitchens. "An unused storage room," he explained as a groom brought them a larger candelabrum. "I hope it's suitable."

"I'm sure it is," the Duchess reassured him. "I only pray she's despondent enough to confess her sins to us. Shall we, Sister?"

Elizabeth had expected Nan Wingfield to greet them with a defiant glare or even a sly smile, but the girl was the picture of sodden, terrified defeat. In fact, it didn't seem as if she had even noticed them; she lay huddled on the bed in a wet linen shift that clung to her skin, rocking herself and moaning as if she already knew how badly her plans had failed.

"Mistress Wingfield, we would speak with you," the Duchess said as Elizabeth placed the candelabrum on the bedside table and tried to ignore the sharp stink of vomit permeating the room.

But she didn't move, didn't even look up. She just kept rocking herself, a pitiful sight, the wet shift emphasizing the slight curve of her belly…

Oh dear.

The Duchess frowned. "Mistress Wingfield," she tried again, "will you not rise?"

She wrapped her arms around her even more tightly and turned away from them.

Katherine was about to speak again when Nan began to shiver so violently that her teeth chattered; Elizabeth reached out to grab her shoulder but Katherine shook her head and motioned for her to move back. "Will you at least tell me how far along you are?" she asked, kneeling in front of the girl and resting a hand on her back.

But Nan couldn't speak a word, couldn't even meet the Duchess's gaze: with a gasp she broke down into incoherent sobs, her face pressing into the thin, louse-riddled mattress.

Seeing there was nothing more to gain, the Duchess rose to her feet again and left, Elizabeth behind her. "Please have food, ale, clean clothing, and fresh water brought to Mistress Wingfield immediately," she said to Sir Richard once the door was firmly closed and the guards had retaken their places. "The room will also have to be cleaned and the mattress replaced; I suggest you find a maid with a strong stomach."

He frowned at her. "With respect, Your Grace, I don't think His Majesty would allow a traitor to be coddled in such a manner."

"I agree," she replied, "but the child she carries is innocent of sin and deserves our pity."

"She's pregnant?" Chapuys asked as Sir Richard gave Elizabeth a startled glance.

"I estimate from the size of her belly and from…from what I remember of Doña Lina's pregnancy that she's due to deliver at Eastertide, which means that as a first-time mother she likely discovered her condition about a month ago."

"Right when she started to talk up Sir Charles," Elizabeth said. "And that would explain the 'troubles' Sir Charles mentioned in the letter Nan Broughton saw."

Katherine nodded. "My guess is she decided the next best thing to marrying her child's father was to have him marry an heiress whose dowry could support her and the babe. I don't know if Mary was the best choice or simply the most convenient. And as for why Sir Charles went along with it despite the obvious extreme risk…well, I suspect he still sees himself as His Majesty's closest friend, and as such he must be confident he'll eventually be forgiven."

"Not just that," Sir Richard added, "but if the King were to die childless, naturally or otherwise…"

"…Mary would inherit, and then her children – _his_ children if he married her," the Duchess said. "The House of Brandon, long to reign over us."

"Heaven forfend such wickedness!" Elizabeth cried.

"Mistress Wingfield's child is his?" Chapuys suddenly asked. "Why would he not marry her instead?"

"Because he's a cad," Sir Richard muttered, "and she's a whore. They're also cousins and so broke they could never afford a dispensation."

The four of them shared grim looks. "Sister Elizabeth and I should inform His Majesty of this," the Duchess said, "and I would ask you to accompany us, Monsieur. Sir Richard, I thank you for your assistance but I'm sure you have many urgent matters to attend to."

He bowed to her. "Your Grace."

On their way upstairs the Duchess snorted a bitter laugh. "Do you know what the saddest part of this is, Sister? If Sir Charles had asked for money for a dispensation to marry Nan, Henry would have opened his treasury to him without a second thought and put in a good word with the Holy Father as well. The fool could have had a wife and perhaps even a male heir by Easter but he threw it all away out of greed."

"With respect, Your Grace, I suspect ambition more than greed," she said. "Marriage to Nan Wingfield could never bring him the crown matrimonial."

The Duchess grimaced. "You may very well be right."

They discovered the King in the cavernous Great Hall. "Cata!" he cried, waving to them from where he was standing near the dais with the Duke of Norfolk and Thomas More. "Did you learn anything?"

"Only that she's with child, Your Majesty," she replied as they curtseyed, "which is likely why she suggested the abduction to Sir Charles. She wasn't able to calm herself enough to answer our questions or even register our presence."

"Pregnant!" the Duke exclaimed. "So the fool was going to ransom Mary so he'd have enough money to wed the girl?"

She sighed. "We believe he actually hopes to wed the Princess, Your Grace. That way he could support his mistress and bastard and sire legitimate children on the King's sister…children that, as Sister Elizabeth has rightly reminded me, might one day sit on the throne should the King happen to die without an heir of his body."

"He was planning to…that thrice-damned FUCKER!" the King bellowed, his face darkening. "Never mind his ancestry; I'll have the traitor hanged, drawn, and quartered and his head on a pike by nightfall!"

"If I were you, Majesty, I'd hang 'em both," Norfolk rasped. "Damn the brat in her belly to hell! It's probably too stupid to live anyway with the parents the Devil's given it."

More's mouth dropped open in outrage. "My lord Duke, how dare you—"

But the King raised a hand, his ire receding as quickly as it had swelled. "No, no: Tom's right, Norfolk. I won't risk my soul by knowingly condemning an innocent child to death. There's plenty of time to execute her after the child is born."

Elizabeth heard this with the greatest relief. There was no question that it was a sin beyond words to execute a pregnant woman, but it would be equally sinful to freely pardon a traitor simply because she was pregnant. The King had the right of this, as did Tom More – _Lord_ More, she corrected herself. If there could be a stronger sign of the King's sound moral principles than the ennoblement of the best man she and John had ever known…

"I suppose we have to keep within the law with Charles too," Henry continued, interrupting her thoughts. "We will bring him to trial, but it will be handled as the law dictates. But first things first: Cata, I think it's time we checked on Mary. My lords, if you'll excuse us."

They bowed to the King, the Duchess motioning silently for Elizabeth and Chapuys to accompany them as the crowd parted to let him pass. Once they were in the first floor gallery he relaxed and turned to Katherine with a sly grin. "So your cunning interrogation techniques failed to succeed, I see?"

She shook her head, as serious as a judge. "You forget that there was a variable I couldn't have anticipated. I can't be held responsible for—"

A piercing scream suddenly rent the air from above.

The King sprang into action and flew up the stairs to the royal apartments, the rest of the group close behind him. As Elizabeth reached the Princess's sitting room she could hear him barking angry questions at the guards, but his voice faded away as she caught sight of a still, small body slumped in a pool of blood in the middle of the sitting room floor.

It was Angelica.

Without a thought for her own safety – or anything at all, for that matter – she ran to her friend's side and cradled her in her arms, trying to stanch the blood pouring from her shoulder with her hands…there was so much of it…

"Bed…" Angelica moaned. "…protect…"

"It's all right; the Princess is safe," she lied. "Pray with me. Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…"

"Pater noster, qui es…qui…" She suddenly moaned and lapsed into unconsciousness, her eyes rolling to the back of her head.

 _No_.

A man's voice suddenly burst out from the next room; to Elizabeth it sounded as if it was coming from the bottom of a well. "In here, Your Majesty! There's a secret passage!"

The King vaulted over her and Angelica and disappeared through the bedchamber door, breaking the spell she'd been under; her head suddenly snapped around. "You!" she shouted at one of the guards by the door. "Run and tell Sir Richard and the Sergeant of the Guard that Brandon's taken the Princess into the old service corridors! And you!" she shouted at another guard. "Get a priest, now!"

As they ran to do her bidding Meg materialized by her side. "Sister, let me," she pleaded, pulling Angelica's head into her lap and pressing a thick linen towel onto the wound. "The Princess needs you."

Elizabeth stared at the maid, unable to take in what was happening. "Angelica…she…"

"I know, madam, but the Princess needs you," she repeated.

She silently rose to her feet and ran down the stairs to the gallery as if through a fog. On one level she knew everyone was staring at her, staring at the blood smeared all over her hands and soaked into her habit, but she couldn't stop; racing with her skirts clutched in her hands, she flew down to the ground floor and out the front entrance, desperate to prevent—

But she was too late.

They were all frozen in place: Sir Charles, his back pressed against the flank of his white destrier, his jerkin and sleeves red with Angelica's blood, holding a dagger to Princess Mary's throat; the King standing in front of him, his empty hands held out in supplication; Mary, gasping in terror as the blade nicked her skin and a thin line of blood trickled down her bodice; the guards surrounding all of them, their swords drawn; and in the back, inching up to Sir Charles as silently as a ghost, the Duchess of Somerset.

She resolutely tore her eyes away from the Duchess and pushed her way through the ring of guards to join Tom More behind the King. His voice came low in her ear: "Unharmed, I think."

"I won't let you get away with this," Henry was telling his old friend. "Walk away now and I give you my word…"

"What?" Brandon jeered. "That I won't die slowly? Do you think me a fool?"

A dark puddle of liquid was seeping out from under the hem of Mary's ruined dress; Elizabeth prayed it was only urine. If he had forced her, bloodied her…if there had even been time…

The King shook his head. "I've never thought that, Charles. Let Mary go."

"What, abandon my own true love?" he said, one eyebrow raised. "Or didn't you know? We've been corresponding for weeks. Why, just last Monday my darling sent me a letter begging to become my wife and promising me all kinds of delights in the marriage bed. Isn't that right, sweetheart?"

The King stared at Mary, his mouth dropping open, but she twisted in Brandon's grasp and was suddenly spitting fire at him. "I didn't write any letters to you! You _lie_! How dare you—"

And in a flash Elizabeth understood why Sir Charles thought his nefarious scheme would work: he had received letters – the 'sweet words, so sweetly put' he'd mentioned in his own letter to her – but they'd been written by Nan Wingfield in Mary's name. The conniving, sly little chit—

"I dare very well, Your Highness," Brandon replied, his voice thick with sarcasm as he tightened his hold on the Princess and pressed the point of his dagger higher up against her throat. "Don't you dare play the miss with me; all I have to do is show the world those letters and you'll wish you'd said yes a thousand times over. In fact, I know many things about you – and your family," and with that he glared at the King, "that I'm sure the English people would find absolutely fascinating."

The King's face went absolutely white. "So it's blackmail, then?"

"Let's call it an arrangement. Let me go freely, allow me to marry Her Highness – oh, and a dukedom would be an appropriate reward for marrying a princess so whorish as to send such _intimate_ letters to a gentleman, don't you think? – and provide us with a handsome settlement. Do all of that and my lips will be sealed. Otherwise everyone in Christendom – the Holy Father, the French, even saintly Lord More over there – will learn everything there is to know about your 'Christian' values."

But the King didn't move a muscle, didn't cry out, didn't move his gaze from Sir Charles's face. "No."

"You'd rather the world know…"

Henry's voice was low and clear as a bell. "I don't know what you've invented. I don't know what you've misunderstood. I don't care. Everyone knows you're a liar and a cheat and nothing you say can or will be believed. Tell me: what evidence do you have for the misconduct you accuse us of?"

His face flushed and he took a step forward, dragging Mary with him. "I know what I saw, Harry!" he shouted, his face purple with rage. "I know everything about you and Ned and your little stable of—"

Steel suddenly flashed at Sir Charles's right shoulder; he screamed, dropping his dagger as bright red blood sprayed and Mary twisted out of his grasp and the guards ran forward and the King shouted "Take him alive!" as the Princess flew into his arms. "I want him up for treason!"

It was too late.

He staggered, holding out his uninjured arm in supplication toward Henry, his lips forming words no one would ever hear – and then blood started to gush out from under his arm again and he dropped to his knees, the light leaving his eyes as he slumped into the mud.

A man's voice behind her shouted for Dr. Lee as the guards drew back but all Elizabeth could do was kneel down beside the dying man and cradle his head, just as she had Angelica's, prayer pouring unbidden from her lips. "Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum…"

Some deeply-buried piece of herself was screaming in rage, berating her for not spitting in his wound or damning his soul to hell, but she couldn't have stopped herself if she'd tried. He had committed the greatest of crimes, he had shattered Elizabeth's heart into a thousand pieces, but even the worst villain had the right to hear holy prayer at the moment of his death. She was a servant of God: she had a duty.

A hand shot out to Brandon's neck. "Sister…Bet," Tom More murmured in her ear, "he's gone."

"He murdered Angelica," she blurted as the guards unburdened her and Tom helped her to her feet. "She's dead."

"I'm sorry."

The Duchess of Somerset stood near them, a bloody dagger in her left hand, her eyes on Chapuys as he led away Sir Charles's destrier. "Eustache is very good with horses," she said to no one in particular, her gaze never wavering from her servant's back. "He's the best horseman I've ever known. I stabbed him and he held the horse, and it didn't move an inch."

"Madam?" More asked.

She blinked at them. "Sir Charles," she clarified. "I stabbed him in the armpit. That's how you render the hand useless; you slice the veins from underneath. Maestro Vadi told me. I'm glad he wasn't wearing a leather jerkin. Leather's harder to pierce."

They shared a worried look. "Your Grace," Elizabeth said, reaching out to her, "please come away from this."

The Duchess allowed them to lead her indoors and into the study, where Elizabeth gently lowered the clearly shocked young woman into a chair. "May I have the dagger, Your Grace?" More asked.

"The…what?" she mumbled, the weapon dropping out of her hand and tumbling into the rushes. "I thought it would be easier."

Elizabeth frowned. "Easier, madam?"

"I thought I'd be a hero. I'm just a killer. I'm just like Nan."

But that could not be borne. "Your Grace," she began, "you saved the Princess from a fate worse than death and you saved the King from having to behead his oldest friend. You're truly a hero, madam: never doubt that."

Katherine only shook her head, saying nothing more as the Duke of Norfolk barged into the room. Elizabeth braced for an onslaught from the blustering old duke but he merely crossed to the desk and poured a cup of wine, bringing it back to Katherine and pressing it in her hand. "Drink, Highness."

She lifted the cup to her lips, swallowing most of the wine in one gulp. "I killed him," she murmured, looking up at the Duke. "He is dead and I killed him."

"That you did, Highness, and thank God. I haven't seen anything as well done in the past thirty years, not even by old Richard Gloucester, fine soldier he was. By God and the angels, you would have made a grand queen!"

She shook her head again. "I'm no better than Nan."

Elizabeth was about to remonstrate with her again but a gentle hand on her arm stopped her in her tracks. "You might wish to change into a clean habit, Bet," Tom said. "The Duke and I have things well in hand."

She nodded and left, not knowing where to go. Angelica was…she was…

And the enormity of what had happened suddenly crashed down on her, and she dropped to the floor of the hall with a wild scream of anguish.

The next thing she knew she was on her feet in the main entryway again, but hours had somehow passed without her noticing: sunshine was streaming through the windows set high into the west wall, and she had apparently washed off Angelica's blood…and Sir Charles's…and changed into a clean habit. _What had happened? Why didn't she remember?_

She stepped into her study to find one of the grooms packing away her things. "Alfred, whatever are you doing?"

"Getting ready for the move to Placentia, madam, like you told me to." He peered at her more closely. "You're very pale, madam; shall I fetch the physician?"

She shook her head, unwilling to garner any attention. "I'm fine; it must have simply slipped my mind that I told you. Please, carry on."

Her mind reeled as she left him. Why could she not remember the last few hours? Had her mind just – shut off? Was this God's doing, protecting her from memories that would haunt her for life if she'd held onto them? And what could have been more harrowing than witnessing the deaths of her closest friend and her murderer?

She meandered through the house trying to regain the lost hours, eventually meeting up with Tom More – _Lord_ More, she reminded herself again – and Sir Richard Vere just outside the Great Hall. "Is the Duke of Buckingham at Greenwich, Tom?" she asked More during a lull in their conversation.

"I think he's still in town. Why?"

"Angelica is – was – his half-sister; they were close. I'll have to write him."

"She was the old duke's natural child?" Sir Richard asked. "I should have known. She was a true noble lady, noble indeed to have sacrificed her life for the Princess."

Under any other circumstances Elizabeth would have been sorely tempted to laugh in his Janus face, but not today. "She surely was," she said. "What does His Majesty intend to do with Nan Wingfield, do you know?"

"The Tower and a secret trial, so as not to drag the Princess's name through the mud," the Duke of Norfolk said, joining them from the main hallway. "Once the child is born they'll find a foster family for it and it'll be choppity-chop time for the whore. I saw the letters they found in Brandon's effects supposedly in the Princess's hand; if he'd compared them with the letters he got from the whore he wouldn't have been taken in. They weren't exact but they were close enough."

"Sir Charles was hardly known for his brains, Your Grace," More commented. "I suppose the King will see to his daughters' upbringing?"

"What do you think, my lord? I've never known a man so dedicated to coddling ladies – although it served him damned well this time, didn't it? Defence lessons for everyone!" And he wandered off into the Great Hall.

"His Grace carries himself with such noble dignity," Sir Richard snorted. "Although he has a point; if His Majesty hadn't let Princess Katherine – the Duchess, I should say – study defence, things might have gone much worse for us all, and especially for Princess Mary."

"Has Her Highness recovered?" Elizabeth asked. "And the Duchess?"

"They returned with the King to Placentia right after dinner. Will the household be able to follow him tonight, or will you need until tomorrow?"

She could only equivocate for the moment. "I don't know, to be honest. I have to arrange for Angelica's body to be readied for transport back to Dartford and…"

Lord More peered at her. "I'm surprised His Majesty didn't tell you, Bet; he's having her buried with full honours at Placentia, in the Church of the Observant Friars. He told me he intends to have John celebrate the funeral mass, so I assumed he'd discussed it with you."

She blinked. "I…today's been such a rush…if you'll excuse me, I need to check on something upstairs."

On her way to her room she stopped to retrieve something from the study. "Alfred," she asked as she took out her key and opened the house's oaken lockbox, "have you seen Meg recently?"

"She was up in your room the last I heard, but that was a while back."

"Ask her to meet me there again. And don't pack the lockbox; find guards to take it up to Placentia separately, please."

The bedchamber was emptier than it had ever been, she thought as she perched on the edge of her mattress. Meg had already packed Angelica's things, taken down her crucifix, stripped her bed...doubtless they'd washed her body there…

 _she was gone she was gone she was truly gone_

Grief suddenly engulfed her with such an intensity that for a second she thought the agony would tear her heart to bits. Ten years, she realized as sobs wracked her: ten years Angelica had been her closest friend, the one person in the world she'd loved above all others save her family, and he'd murdered her. Ten years since the skinny, sharp northerner and the shy noble bastard – and how she'd worn that label as a badge of honour – had met as postulants, and he'd murdered her. Ten years they'd supported each other, worked together, dined together, worshipped together, and he'd murdered her. She was gone, she was gone, and not even her killer's death mattered.

Why? Had it been God's will – a disease, an accident – she would have accepted it or at least understood, but this? What devil, what fiend, what mania had possessed Charles Brandon? She could only beg God to explain, to give her a reason.

But even as she fell to her knees she knew he would never explain, and she full knew why: there was no possible explanation. Angelica FitzStafford was dead and gone to God, and there would never be a reason except in the mind of a deceived deceiver who was surely now prostrate at God's feet begging for the absolution he never thought to ask for in life. To him Angelica had been little more than a worm in the apple, a rock in the shoe: an obstruction, not a person.

And what of Nan Wingfield? Wasn't she worse? She had forged Mary's name to a series of what sounded like absolutely filthy letters, raising Sir Charles's hopes and leading him into treason by his privy parts – and for what? Hadn't she recognized the risks they were taking? Had she thought Mary would just go along with the lies and the slanders…

Then again, perhaps she had. She was a great fool, as great a fool as Sir Charles.

A gentle hand brushed against her shoulder; she looked up into the face of Mary's kindly old confessor. "Dr. Lee."

"I wanted to check on you," he said as she stood. "I hear we're all moving to Placentia today – or most of us. I suppose the servants are staying."

She wiped at her tear-streaked face, inexplicably embarrassed by her loss of control. "Forgive me," she babbled, "but I had to…I needed some time…I couldn't—"

"Of course," he murmured, his voice as gentle as a sleeping lamb. "I just wanted you to know that Angelica was able to receive the sacraments before God took her. One of the priests who came up with the King assured me that she still had a pulse when he reached her side."

She sagged in relief. "Praise God! I had her start the Lord's Prayer, but her eyes rolled back and I thought…"

"Generally in these cases life lingers for a minute or two after unconsciousness," he explained, wiping away a tear of his own, "but I must commend you on your quick thinking; that was most excellently done. God would never turn away a noble and pious lady who gave Him laud with her last words after giving her life for her mistress. I will pray for her, of course, but I'm convinced she will hardly feel the warmth of Purgatory on her way to Heaven and the Blessed Virgin's embrace."

She was about to reply in kind – if only to get him to shut up and go away – when Meg entered the room. "Alf said you wished to see me, madam?"

"I…yes, I did. Dr. Lee, thank you."

"My door is always open, Sister; remember that. We'll see each other again at Compline tonight."

Once he'd left she turned to Meg, whose discomfort was written large on her face. "And how are you, child?"

"I…I don't know," she said in an uncharacteristically small voice. "Did His Majesty leave for Greenwich after he took you upstairs?"

Elizabeth could only stare at her. "His Majesty – what?"

"When you screamed and passed out. The King carried you up to the Queen's apartments and ordered Bet to bathe and dress you. That's what Ralph said, at least; I was up here…" and her eyes strayed to Angelica's bed.

She turned away, unable to face the stripped bed or, more importantly, what it signified. "In all honesty I don't remember. One moment I was on the floor screaming, the next I was in the doorway of my study watching Alfred pack my account books. I-I don't remember a thing that happened in between."

"Oh, madam…"

"I didn't know the King helped me…I didn't help the Princess…I was supposed to but I just stood there like a lump. I…" She swallowed, changing the subject before she could break down again. "Are you coming with us to Placentia, Meg?"

"Can't see there's much need," she said, "not with less than a week left. I'd prefer to stay with my aunt at Bromley until the wedding, if madam will allow. Would you like me to pack your things first?"

"I'll do it myself. I have so little it'll only take me a moment." She took up the sack of coins she'd retrieved from her lockbox. "And you certainly have my permission to leave as soon as you can arrange for an escort. I assumed you'd want to put today's horrors behind you, so here are your wages for the quarter plus the bonus Her Highness personally approved for you."

Meg took the parcel from her, her eyes widening in shock as the weight of the coins registered. "But madam, this must be more than a pound sterling."

"Five pounds, actually, on top of your wages. Not that the Princess and I don't trust your young man not to keep you in style, but you'll need a few outfits as soon as you arrive; a solicitor's wife must dress the part from the very first day."

"Then I must ask for your blessing," she said, a tear escaping her eyes as she knelt.

She placed her hand on the girl's head. "You have it, and rest assured you and Master Finch will be in my prayers from this day forward and for the rest of my life."

"And yours in mine, madam," she said, the light of God shining in her eyes as she rose to her feet and, bobbing a perfect little curtsy, left Elizabeth for the last time.

She could only marvel at the resilience of the young. But would the Princess react the same way? Would she dream badly? Develop fears? Learn to be more circumspect and less openly emotional? Or would Sir Charles's wickedness roll off her like water over a duck's back?

She didn't know which result she should pray for.

She pulled out her bags and began to pack up her clothes.

* * *

University of Cambridge people, gnash not your teeth: I am well aware that St. John's College (which was in real life also funded by Margaret Beaufort's estate) is named after St. John the Evangelist. In my fictional world, however, King Henry was born on the feast day of St. John the Baptist and he decided to honour that saint instead.

St. John Fisher did have a younger half-sister in real life named Elizabeth White. She was a Dominican religious sister and resided at Dartford Priory, and Fisher addressed two of the works he wrote in the Tower of London to her. We have no idea when she was born or when she chose a consecrated life, but we do know she was a child of their shared mother's second marriage and lived long enough to go into exile in 1559 rather than swear the Oath of Supremacy to Queen Elizabeth I.

If anyone's wondering, there actually was a Kentish royal house servant named Meg who married a Lancashire solicitor named Will Finch at some point in the early 16th century. One genealogy I've seen puts them as distant ancestors of about half of the population of old Lancashire; their most famous known descendant is the Duchess of Cambridge, but I wouldn't be surprised if they showed up in the family lines of one or two of the Beatles as well.


	21. À Madame

20 November 1510  
Palace of Westminster

Thomas Wolsey ran a finger around the inside of his collar, his lips pursed in worry as he waited for the King to arrive and that day's Privy Council meeting to begin. Calmness under pressure might be his stock in trade but he wasn't feeling particularly calm at the moment.

He wasn't the only one trying to suppress a fit of nerves. Up and down the polished walnut table lords and bishops were sharing worried glances or mopping their foreheads, but unlike most of them he wasn't expecting bad news from Pavia out of the exhausted, begrimed messenger who'd arrived from Paris moments earlier; English gold in the balance or not, it was far too late in the season for the Queen's father to launch another offensive in the Po Valley. No, Wolsey was worried that the French had learned of last month's events at Eltham.

They'd been incredibly lucky that the courtyard had been almost deserted by the time Charles Brandon had arrived. Ironically, the grooms and stable boys who would have usually been loitering in the courtyard that time of day had been sent out into the deer parks by Sir Richard Vere to search for the traitorous knight, and only a few senior courtiers, half a dozen yeoman guards, the King's family (including young Chapuys, whom he supposed counted), and one lone religious sister had witnessed the standoff. The dearth of witnesses of questionable loyalty had made it child's play to concoct a story that completely obscured Brandon's real intentions and saved Mary's reputation. _Virga intacta_ the Princess might still be, praise God, but even the single minute (if that) she'd spent alone with the blackguard in Eltham's forgotten service corridors would be enough to sow seeds of doubt in the minds of the crowned heads of Europe if they learned of it. No, let them think that Brandon had lured Henry to Eltham with the intention of killing him and taking the throne by right of conquest; let them think Sister Angelica had died protecting the King himself; let them think Brandon had been killed by a guard; and, most importantly, let them think the Princess and the Duchess of Somerset had been ensconced in the Royal Apartments in the presence of their ladies at the time, well away from the mayhem. But if someone spilled the beans, even inadvertently…

But he didn't have time to fret for very long over the matter as the doors leading to the King's study burst open and Henry rushed into the room, relief flooding his face. "It's a Dauphin for France, my lords!" he cried as the councillors jumped to their feet. "A healthy son!"

"Praise God!" Archbishop Bainbridge breathed, while Bishops Fisher and Stanley crossed themselves. "And the Queen?"

But at that the King's lips grew thin. "I regret Queen Anne has given her life in the performance of her sacred duty," he said. "It hadn't yet been publicly announced when Sir Thomas sent his message, but his informant is the midwife's assistant so we must assume the news is reliable."

The room fell silent. It was of course every married woman's duty to give her husband sons, even at the risk of her life, but that was little comfort to any man whose wife or mistress was currently increasing. Even his Joan, God bless her, had just discovered she was with child again; should he lose her…

No, he would not think of it.

"I have of course sent His Majesty a note of congratulations," the King continued as he took his seat and gestured for the councillors to join him, "and will forward my condolences when official confirmation of the death arrives. In addition, I will have five hundred masses said for Her Majesty's soul and the court will observe a week of mourning. I'll ask you to make the necessary arrangements, Archbishop; Dr. Stanley, I'll ask you to pass on the news to your nephew the Earl at Edinburgh. Sir Thomas writes that the Scots envoy in Paris is dying of a consumption and his opposite has yet to be selected, so I think it best that our ambassador assume the duty of informing my brother, King James."

Bishop Stanley grimaced. "I'll send a messenger to Holyrood straight away, Majesty."

"Let us also pray King Louis himself remains in good health," Lord Courtenay added. "There's been enough instability already this year with the wars in Italy and the assassination attempt; the last thing we need is a French regent throwing his weight around in the Channel."

Out of the corner of his eye Wolsey could see Lord More and the Duke of Norfolk exchange glances. It was strange, Wolsey mused; ever since that day at Eltham the proud old duke and the young, razor-sharp lawyer had become friends of a sort, or at least allies at Council. He wasn't sure what had happened to bring it about, but he hoped it would last until he could find a way to make use of the—

"There is one other piece of urgent business," the King said, breaking into his thoughts. "I have, as you know, visited the Tower numerous times over the past few weeks to discuss Sir Charles's actions with Mistress Wingfield." He suddenly frowned at Wolsey. "Your Grace, don't give me that look. I'm not intending to pardon her."

"Your Majesty, I was only concerned—"

"I'm sure you were," he cut in. "I speak not of her today, though, but of the Tower itself. I happened to bring my spectacles to the Tower this morning, and looking around for the first time I found myself amazed by the piteous condition of the buildings surrounding Tower Green. The inner north wall in particular is falling to bits, and St. Peter's, the parish church for hundreds of royal servants, is perilously close to collapse. I have therefore decided to rebuild both, but I would like your thoughts on the matter."

"It would be quite the costly endeavour, Your Majesty, especially while we so lavishly fund the Venetian army," Bishop Fisher said, as a few of the lords nodded in agreement. "Could the work not be delayed until next summer?"

The King's reply was milder than the question deserved. "I very much agree with Your Grace that the expenditure comes as an inconvenience. It is however an indisputable truth that the Tower is the foundation stone of the security of our realm, one without which we cannot guarantee the safety of our people. Surely Your Grace would not wish rebels or Frenchmen to overrun our realm and bring death and destruction to the people of England."

Fisher frowned. "Majesty, I hardly think—"

But his reedy voice was drowned out by the King's booming baritone. "For more than four hundred years," Henry orated, "my predecessors and I have been burdened by God with the rule of this glorious realm, and not a day has gone by that they and I have not depended upon the security afforded England by the Tower's mighty walls. Why, I myself remember the day the Cornish rebels arrived at Deptford…"

Wolsey exchanged a tolerant glance with Bishop Stanley as the King rose to his feet and circled the Council table, waxing eloquently on not just the traitorous Cornishmen of his childhood but also the long-ago invasion by Louis VIII of France, the threat of Joan la Pucelle, and the upheavals of the Cousins' War. The centuries slipped away as he painted a vivid picture of the careless Saxon leaders whose failure to protect their realm with stone had resulted in Norman conquest; only the mighty edifice erected by King William – "bastard in body and soul, but a man of great foresight", as he put it – had brought stability and peace to the English people. "But we must never take that security for granted, Your Grace, not even now," he said in closing, taking his seat again with a polite nod to his episcopal opponent. "The mere presence of the Tower confounds our enemies; I cannot take the risk of allowing it to fall into ruin."

"But that doesn't answer His Grace's question, Your Majesty," the Earl of Arundel pointed out. "Necessary or not, the money simply isn't in the general expenditure budget. We can't ask Parliament for a subsidy now that the Commons has risen. So where will the money come from?"

"From Italy, my lord," Wolsey broke in, opening the portfolio he'd brought with him. "The first quarterly rents from Basso Lodigiano arrived early this morning, and if I'm not mistaken we have enough to rebuild the entire Tower with gold to spare."

The King was instantly alert. "How much did they send?"

He quoted a figure, noting with pleasure that, although a few of the bishops still seemed uncertain of the propriety of the transaction the King had entered into with his father-in-law, any qualms on the part of the lords on Council as to whether the matter constituted 'usury' had completely evaporated. "The gold is, coincidentally, currently under guard at the Tower," Wolsey added. "Lord Mountjoy and I personally supervised its arrival at the Mint early this morning."

The King was beaming so brightly Wolsey marvelled the Sun didn't file a complaint over the competition. "That's settled, then; thank you, Your Grace. It only remains for us to decide who will handle this very great responsibility." He turned to the Duke of Buckingham, who was sitting to his right. "My lord duke, I understand you're still in mourning for your lady sister but I would not wish to entrust the future of the Tower to less vigilant hands than yours. Would you, cousin, accept the great responsibility of supervising the renovations?"

The burly duke seemed to grow three inches in height, and no wonder. "It would be a great honour to serve Your Majesty," he replied, the desiccated sprig of rosemary in his hatband shivering as he dipped his head. "I'll begin on the plans immediately."

"Excellent. And Dr. Wolsey?" the King added, directing his attention down the table. "Would you take on the responsibility of refreshing and enlarging St. Peter's under His Grace's authority? I would ask Dr. Carvannell to handle it but the chaplain's health isn't what it should be, and I hesitate to increase his workload."

He quashed the urge to swear under his breath; if it were anyone but Buckingham…but he could hardly disobey a direct order. "I'm more than pleased to work with the Duke, Your Majesty," he said. "In fact, if His Grace is amenable we could meet at the Tower this afternoon, say at four?"

Buckingham's eyes were as cold as Boreas. "Bishop."

The King didn't seem to notice. "Then I leave the matter in your capable hands," he said. "I wish you a good day, gentlemen. Bishop Wolsey, if I could have a moment of your time?"

He rose from his bow, ignoring the glares of the other councillors, and followed the King out of the council chambers to his study. No doubt the other councillors suspected him of gaining additional favour with Henry's constant requests for private meetings, but in truth the only thing that ever arose from them was additional work for himself and his staff.

No, he corrected himself: he couldn't deny that the work had brought him many real if intangible benefits. Prestige, power, admiration: these were well worth a few aristocratic scowls – and sleepless nights.

He did have his suspicions as to why the King wished to speak to him, as it had been only last week that they'd discussed the possibility of sending Mary to France should Queen Anne die in childbirth. Louis was almost fifty, it was true, but he was still clearly capable of satisfying a wife; more importantly, his throne was subject to Salic Law, that odious scrap of ancient detritus that barred women – including Louis's only daughter, Princess Claude – from the succession. Henry had agreed that, living son or not, Louis would soon cast aside his mourning weeds in search of a new wife, and who better to raise his spirit (amongst other things) than a beautiful, blooming English princess?

But in this he was to be disappointed. "I'm afraid our plans have come to naught, Your Grace," the King said as he dismissed the groom and gestured for Wolsey to sit and join him in a goblet of wine. "If Boleyn's informant is right, Queen Anne didn't die of childbed fever or a birth accident but of the great pox. The surgeon," and with that he grimaced, "witnessed the marks on her person after her death."

He froze, his cup halfway to his lips. "Surgeon, Majesty?"

"The semi-official story is that she bled to death and the child had to be cut out," he said. "Boleyn didn't give me his opinion – given how quickly he got the message out he might not have had time to formulate one – but I have to wonder if she truly was dead when the first cut was made. Louis certainly waited long enough for a prince."

Wolsey digested the news. "If the report is true the King must also carry the malady. I trust Your Majesty is far too wise to marry the Princess to a poxed man, whether he ordered his Queen cut open or not."

Henry nodded. "It'd be a death sentence. As for the Duke of Valois, Boleyn writes…" He shuffled through the pages, peering down at the last one through his glasses. "Ah, here it is: François's betrothal to Princess Claude is likely to be confirmed, and the wedding is expected to take place the day after her twelfth birthday."

"So next October. A great deal can happen in eleven months."

"A great deal, yes. If Louis does die in the interim we might be able to convince François…" but he stopped with a grimace and looked up at Wolsey. "The problem is that, at least according to Boleyn, the French court is infested with whores – and not hidden away in dark corners like here at Westminster either. It's apparently quite the fashion for even great men to publicly patronize them. If Louis caught the pox from a court whore Valois might be infected as well. It's a damned shame, but if that's true I can't send Mary to France; the risk is just too high. So who do we marry her to?"

"The Archdukes Charles and Ferdinand are still unattached," Wolsey began, "as is Prince John, the heir to the throne of Portugal. They unfortunately suffer from the same defect that the Archduchess of Castile did with respect to Your Majesty's own marriage prospects; the inconvenient bond of consanguinity deriving from the Earl of Richmond's birth."

"'Inconvenient' is exactly the right word," he muttered. "I admit, I'm at the point where I wonder if it wouldn't be a good idea to pretend Juan really is Doña Lina's child and let God figure it out."

Wolsey was far too canny to agree with this eminently reasonable suggestion. He'd learned over the past year that the King could be led to a more pragmatic viewpoint only if he thought he was forging the way; any sign of premature agreement or encouragement from his advisers would send him scuttling back to the starry-eyed idealism he'd absorbed from Thomas More's tutelage. Let him chew on the idea, he thought; let him work it around in his mind. Within a year he'd be willing to consider the matter seriously, and by then Mary would be in the full ripeness of her womanhood and more than ready for the marriage bed – and it would be a Portuguese bed, if he had his way.

"Mind you," the King continued, "I doubt Maximilian would entertain an offer for Charles or Ferdinand, not after we broke her betrothal to Charles last year. He might privately understand that I was unable to guarantee Mary's hand until I had an heir of my own but the repudiation must still touch his honour. Are there any other possibilities?"

"There's the King of Poland," Wolsey suggested. "He's an older man – only five years younger than Louis, for that matter – but he's never married and has no heir."

Henry regarded him coolly under lowered brows. "Bastards or boyfriends, Tom?"

He grinned. "Bastards, Majesty; his mistress is said to be the most beautiful woman in Poland and remarkably fertile, if unfortunate in the survival of her children. If Sigismund is too old in Your Majesty's opinion, we could look at Prince Christian of Denmark or even the Duke of Lorraine. Both Dukes of Bavaria are also in the market for brides, but I would caution against Duke Louis; I've heard reports that he's a violent man who beats his mistresses."

"As opposed to Duke William, who is a gentle shimmer of sunlight."

"Bavaria is a harsh land, Your Majesty."

"That it is, but England isn't that much softer, is it? They might have war and icy cold and violence on the streets, but what do we have? Knights running amok, ladies leading them around by their pizzles…" He leaned back in his chair, his lips thin. "I'm not going to pardon her, Tom. If Charles had tricked her into helping him I'd happily let her enter a convent, but under the circumstances I won't accept anything less than execution."

He bowed in acknowledgment of the King's decision despite not believing for a moment that it would stand. Henry Tudor, he firmly believed, would never kill a woman.

But the King had returned to his sister's fate. "Forget Sigismund, Tom; not only is he too old for Mary, I can't see how marrying her to Poland would be of any use to England. Denmark is closer and more powerful, and the Scandinavians have an inexhaustible hunger for wool and cheese. Make discreet enquiries, please – and talk to the envoy from Lorraine as well." He gathered up Boleyn's letter, darting a glance at Wolsey once he'd folded it away. "I take it you haven't heard any rumours about Cata and Chapuys yet."

"Nary a one, Majesty," he said, "but that's hardly unexpected; women, even princesses, are primarily valued for their fertility. A barren lady might as well not exist in most men's minds. Has Duke Charles written back, might I ask?"

"Oh, yes, and I'll leave you to imagine the apology he proffered at having misunderstood the situation. Needless to say he acceded to my 'request' and is willing to accept the connection in the 'spirit of true princely Christianity that would never turn its back on a lady requiring the protection of a valiant knight, no matter how meanly born'. He's just happy the matter didn't cost him anything except a few kind words to Chapuys's mother."

"From what I've heard, Majesty, the Duke is rarely generous with anything other than words." He pursed his lips; perhaps this was as good a time as any. "There is one matter, Majesty, that I've recently been made aware of. It seems as if the Viceroy's ambassador, Don Rodrigo, has learned something of the Duchess of Somerset's earlier situation from his sister, whom I understand is one of the Duchess's ladies in waiting."

"His sister…"

"Doña Esmeralda de Vargas, Majesty."

The King swore under his breath. "That disloyal little witch…do you know if Don Rodrigo has passed anything on to the Viceroy yet?"

"I don't believe so; none of his letters – either those sent through official channels or otherwise – have breathed a word of it. His mentions of Her Grace have been infrequent and wholly appropriate. My guess is that he doesn't quite believe his sister."

"Perhaps he doesn't, but even if he does…if you were the Spanish ambassador, Tom, and you had dirt on the Duchess of Somerset, would you pass it on? The Viceroy would likely think you mad."

"Or jealous, Majesty."

"As if Don Rodrigo had the right to be jealous of a princess," he muttered. "But I suppose he should be officially advised; it's not as if the news can be kept secret forever."

"Shall I draft a letter to Her Grace?"

Henry shook his head. "He'll take it better from me directly, and perhaps I can kill two birds with one stone and find out exactly which tales Doña Esmeralda has been telling. Is he at court, do you know?"

"Don Rodrigo was in the Great Hall earlier this morning, Majesty. Shall I send for him?"

The King's feral grin reminded Wolsey of a particularly self-satisfied bird of prey. "Please do."

He bowed, ignoring the shiver running up his spine.

Don Rodrigo de Vargas arrived almost immediately, his air that of a man who was granting an audience instead of receiving one. "Your Majesty."

 _He knows something_ , Wolsey suddenly realized as he met the King's eyes. _He knows something and he hopes it will bring him advantage._

"Ambassador de Vargas, I thank you for your prompt reply to my summons," Henry said in French, smoothly gesturing for him to rise from his bow. "I assume you've met my Almoner, Bishop Wolsey?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Your Grace," he said, giving Wolsey a tiny bow before turning back to the King. "I pray Her Highness the Queen is well?"

"As well as any husband could hope for, and I thank you for asking. Given today's news from France…"

"And sad news it is, Majesty," he said with a sad shake of the head, "although I understand the boy thrives. May he live to rock his grandson's cradle!"

The King lifted his goblet. "Well put, Excellency; that's something I'll happily drink to. To the Dauphin!"

"The Dauphin!" they chorused.

"Still," Henry added, "it does make a man worry. I suppose it's easier to be blessed with a barren wife at times like this; Master Chapuys at least will never lose hairs over the possibility of losing Catalina in childbirth."

Don Rodrigo's shoulders suddenly narrowed and a faint line formed between his brows, as if someone had suddenly let the air out of him. "Majesty?"

"It's good for him to have agreed to my plan, of course," Henry continued. "My lady sister has no vocation and could never be persuaded to take the veil, and – well, I think we all know what can happen to women of property and rank if they don't marry. If I had passed from this world without seeing her settled the Queen would naturally have done her best to protect her – they're the closest of friends – but it would have been a great deal to ask of her." He gave the stunned ambassador a puzzled look, his mouth suddenly dropping open. "Oh, good heavens. She hasn't advised you yet, has she?"

Vargas's eyes were as wide as a deer's after a blast from the hunter's horn. "I…no, Your Majesty. I've heard rumours, but…"

The King could only shake his head and give Wolsey a fond look. "I should have known, Tom; she must have been waiting for me to pass on the news. She certainly knows her place. Do you remember when we were searching for a lady Queen to grace my throne, back before I was fortunate enough to be introduced to Nora?"

"I most certainly do, Your Majesty," he said, willing himself not to laugh as Don Rodrigo clutched his goblet in a desperate attempt to prevent his hands from trembling. "Every ambassador in Europe tried to bribe her into supporting their choice – even your predecessor, Señor, who as I recall gave Her Grace a fine Barbary colt. But she never said a word to His Majesty, never tried once to interfere in the process."

"Cata's a lady in a million," the King agreed, "but even a lady as great as she could never have found a husband without assistance. Who would marry a barren woman, princess or not? We're only lucky Chapuys agreed to it – and his cousin Duke Charles, of course. The Duke of Savoy is, after all, an eminently reasonable man."

Wolsey could only bite his lip and nod sagely.

"The Duke of…of course, Your Majesty," de Vargas got out. "I…you are certain that the marriage was truly made? That it is legal under canon law?"

"As certain as I believe the evidence of my own eyes," he retorted. "His Grace celebrated the nuptial mass just last Thursday in my presence; if you don't believe me, ask him."

De Vargas's face had turned beet red. "So…so they were married before witnesses under the aegis of Holy Church, Your-Your Grace. I…I suppose I must offer my congratulations, but the story I had heard was somewhat…different. I had heard there were…illicit connections, although Your Majesty may be assured I was far from believing the rumours."

By then Wolsey had fully entered into the spirit of the matter. "Illicit…" He and the King traded amazed stares. "Did they think she was…"

"God's blood!" Henry growled as he sprung to his feet, his face the very picture of ferocious injured royal dignity. "I don't know which thrice-damned liar you've been listening to, Excellency, but you may take my word for it: it took six full months for Her Grace to agree to marry him!"

By then the ambassador was quivering like a lute string. "Majesty, I don't…I cannot believe…"

But Henry was livid. " _You_ cannot? _I_ cannot believe that someone at my court would slander Cata's good name! Who was it, Don Rodrigo? If it's a man I'll have him whipped; if a woman…what do you think, Tom?"

"If she's married, Your Majesty, I'd send her back to her husband's lands to repent her filthy tongue; otherwise I'd recommend the veil."

He snorted an angry laugh. "As if any honest convent needs a woman like that. Six months: six long months spent convincing Cata, and this slanderer would have her…what? His whore? It's simply not to be tolerated!"

"I…it wasn't anyone at court, Your Majesty," de Vargas finally confessed. "It was a member of Her Highness's household..."

"Even worse!" he shouted. "Is the disloyal blackguard a Spaniard? Can you order him back to Madrid?"

"Insulting a princess of royal blood, and a Trastámara at that," Wolsey tutted under his breath. "One would never imagine that a Spaniard of all people—"

De Vargas was so flustered he began to wring his hands, apparently without realizing; it was all Wolsey could do not to laugh out loud. "I…I'll handle this, Your Majesty," the ambassador said. "And please, allow me to express my most sincere, most abject apologies and my solemn word before God that I never believed the rumours nor passed them on to the Viceroy or anyone else. My si…informant, she is a vicious troublemaker to whom I should never have turned an ear."

Henry gave him a long, searching look. "I take it, Don Rodrigo," he said, "that this is your first embassy?"

He nodded, his face still as red as a bowl of cherries.

"Then you haven't had much experience with gathering and evaluating information," Wolsey suggested. "You'll find that the most reliable informants are those with little emotional connection to the situation. Perhaps your…lady advisor…has conceived an amour for Master Chapuys, or even for Her Highness."

The King glared at him. "Your Grace! Such depravity!"

He held up a hand. "Such situations are not unheard of, Your Majesty. If I were you, Don Rodrigo, I'd ask her family to send her back to her husband, or perhaps find her a nice, secure convent back in Spain if she's unmarried. We could even find a place for her here in England if her family would rather wash their hands of her."

He nodded, his face lined with defeat and, Wolsey suspected, anger. "That might be for the best. I…if Your Grace would be so kind as to provide me with the name of a reliable house, possibly in the further reaches of His Majesty's realm, perhaps I could, um, pass the name on…"

"My diocese is actually in the west of England, Excellency; as such, I can heartily recommend St. Cecilia's just outside of Bath. It's more than suitable for a fine lady and the cloister is as secure as one could hope for, and as Bishop I can guarantee she would be accepted immediately. Does she speak English?"

"She does – that is, I believe so." He turned to the King, confusion suddenly apparent in his eyes. "It occurs to me, Majesty, that you had asked me to attend upon your royal presence. Was there something…?"

But he waved a hand. "I'd merely wished to know if you thought the Viceroy would have any questions about the nuptials," he said with a shrug, "but I suppose I should leave you to advise him of them first. I do thank you for your time, Don Rodrigo."

He bowed again. "Majesty. Again, my most sincere apologies."

The King could only laugh as the door closed behind the thoroughly befuddled ambassador. "I almost feel bad for him," he said as he removed his hat and chain of office and dumped them on the desk, "although if he were a more competent ambassador he'd already know about the marriage. I'm more worried about how Cata will take the news of the betrayal. Esmeralda's been with her since she was six years old, you know; she's her oldest friend."

"As Sir Charles was yours, Majesty," he pointed out. "Remember Aesop's tale of the fox and the lion: familiarity breeds contempt."

"You're right, of course," he sighed, "but perhaps it only breeds contempt in stupid people. You've met Maria de Salinas, Cata's other Spanish lady. She'd rather die than betray her mistress, and she's one of the most intelligent persons I've ever met. You could say the same thing about Will Compton. I offered him a barony, you know; he turned it down, said the knighthood was more than enough."

"He doesn't strike me as a man particularly hungry for titles – or particularly concerned with the legislative process, if I may say so."

At that the King laughed. "He is hungry for land, but that's to be expected. Are you dining at court today, Your Grace?"

He blinked at the change of topic. "I'd hoped to dine with Joan, Your Majesty. She's just informed me that she's with child again."

"Again?" the King asked, his eyes lighting up. "What excellent news. Then I won't keep you." He walked Wolsey to the door. "I look forward to hearing of your meeting with the Duke; do let me know if the two of you experience any difficulties…with the tradesmen." And he smiled sweetly.

So the choice to have him work with Buckingham had been deliberate, he thought, looking back at the closed door. Wonderful.

He arrived at Bath House to find Joan on her knees in the main presence chamber, clapping her hands as little Tom tried his best to crawl to her. "Aren't the rushes hard on his skin?" he asked.

"Tom!" she cried, springing to her feet and sweeping their son up in her arms. "I didn't expect you home today. Are you well?"

"As well as I could ask for. I have a meeting this afternoon at the Tower so I thought I'd dine at home with you. How is our little man?"

Just then the boy made a grab for Wolsey's nose. "Happy and healthy, as you can well see," she said with a smile as he took the boy from her and cradled him in his arms. "I'll let Cook know you're dining in."

He carried little Tom into his study and, crouching down, placed the infant on the carpeted floor – a much more appropriate surface for crawling, he thought. And the boy seemed to enjoy it; he reached out a tentative hand, his tiny chubby fingers digging into the soft wool as he gurgled with excitement.

Could there be a more obvious sign of God's greatness, he thought, than the fact that a simple act – the scratching of an itch, really – could result in a miracle such as this tiny perfect scrap of humankind?

Wolsey fully realized how fortunate he was to live in a time when a bishop could discreetly keep his family in London. Had it been necessary to put Tom out to foster he would have, of course, but he would never have imagined the joys he would have missed out on.

Tom suddenly flopped on his back and began to roll himself around the carpet, giggling every time he caught sight of his father's face. "Are you Daddy's little boy?" he cooed, catching the boy before he could bump into a table leg and tickling him until he screamed with joy. "Aren't you just the sweetest—"

A discreet cough came from the doorway; it was Tom's nursemaid, smiling down at them. "It's time for Tommy's mid-morning feeding, Your Grace," she said.

He scooped up the child, kissing him on the head before passing him over. "You saw nothing, Mary."

"Nothing at all, Your Grace," she agreed, completely unperturbed by his forbidding tone of voice. "Shall I bring him back after dinner?"

"If he isn't in the mood for a nap. It seems I see him less and less every day."

He followed her out into the hallway, his eyes on Tom's little elfin face peeking out from above Mary's shoulder as she carried him up the stairs to the nursery. Doubtless his own father had played with him but he had no memory of it; by the time he'd reached the age of reason Robert Wolsey had turned into a remote, forbidding patriarch whose love for his wife, if it had ever existed, was dwarfed by his taste for the housemaids he regularly importuned and discarded. He'd promised himself over his father's grave that he would never mistake fear for respect as his father so clearly had. There would be no beaten children, no fits of violence, no coerced servant girls. And he'd kept his word: his beautiful Joan, his dazzling blonde jewel, had chosen him as freely as he had chosen her, and he'd grown to love her so deeply…

…and that sudden realization sent him rocking back on his heels.

He loved Joan.

When had _that_ happened?

It was simply outlandish for a man of his stature and ambition. Keeping a mistress was one thing – all men had needs, after all – but love? It simply wasn't appropriate. He well remembered his old _dominus_ , Dr. Wainwright, haranguing his pupils on the matter. 'Love is the privilege of the poor and miserable,' he'd maintained. 'If you wish to fall in love, you might as well take up a plough right now and leave your space to a more worthy boy.' It had been a harsh lesson but one he'd carefully absorbed and tucked away in his mind.

He only wished his heart had been paying attention, for there was no question about it: he loved Joan. What would he do about such an inconvenient—

The dinner bell roused him from his reverie; with a mental shrug he followed the sound to the lesser dining hall, where a minor miracle had taken place. It had been less than half an hour since he'd stepped off his barge into the courtyard of Bath House but in that time the simple dinner Joan had arranged for herself had been transformed into a feast fit for a bishop. He really shouldn't be surprised; who would better understand the importance of preserving the dignities of rank than an innkeeper's daughter? And who could be better at ensuring every detail was perfect?

He took his place at the table as she curtseyed. "Your Grace."

"My dear, please sit and enjoy the fruits of your labours," he said, lowering himself into the heavy oak chair. "I have news from the French court."

She perched on the edge of her seat, the green shot silk of her dress barely creasing under her reed-slim form. "From Paris? Has Queen Anne been delivered?"

"I'm afraid she has." They discussed the birth of the Dauphin and the Queen's death as the grooms brought in the meat and pastries – slightly fewer, he noticed, than a bishop would normally be served, but that could hardly be helped given the short notice. "It's unfortunate, but the news has put an end to any marriage negotiations involving the Princess Mary."

"Good riddance, I say. Better she go to Portugal or Savoy than the French."

He could only agree with – but he looked up from his veal with a puzzled frown. "Did you say Savoy, Joan?"

"The costermonger told me the Duke of Savoy sent a man to London to serve the Duchess of Somerset last year," she said as she buttered her bread. "He didn't know why, but I think the Duke is interested in Princess Mary and is wooing her through the Duchess."

So rumours were indeed spreading! He'd have to send a message to the King before he met with Buckingham. "That's not how betrothals are arranged among the crowned heads of Europe, my dear," he said gently. "Negotiations such as these are conducted through ambassadors, not directly with the parties in question."

"And wasn't the Duchess King Ferdinand's ambassador?" she countered. "Maybe the old coot isn't as struck as they say. But then again, maybe Katherine's thinking of marrying the Duke of Savoy herself. She's a widow; she can marry whoever she wants, and there isn't a thing the King could do to stop her."

"That is true," he said, "but I doubt the Duke would marry a barren woman. He needs an heir."

"I suppose you're right." She put down her goblet, peering at him. "Then what's his man doing in England? He is the Duke's man, isn't he? You would know."

It was as good a time as any, he decided, to test the waters. "I do indeed know," he admitted, "but he isn't actually a servant of the Duke. He is however His Highness's cousin – a distant cousin, on his mother's side."

"Cousin, eh? Younger son?"

"Second of five, I understand. Not yet twenty."

"Legitimate? Good-looking?"

"So legitimate it hurts, and grandson of a viscount as well. He's thought…tolerable looking, I suppose. Blue eyes, dark hair – typical European colouring. Very long nose."

"Oh-ho; now there's a…" She suddenly gasped and turned to him, her green eyes widening in surprise. "He's the Duchess's lover!"

He stared at her. "How – how did you come up with that from the size of his nose?"

She gave him a disarmingly cheeky grin. "I didn't and you know that. I simply asked myself why a handsome young man would wish to live in dirty, cold England if he could instead live in the Alps. You have to admit it doesn't make a lot of sense, does it?"

"I suppose…"

"The only way it does make sense is if he's here for a reason," she continued. "So he's either here as an envoy, which you said he wasn't; a merchant, which he isn't if he's joined a royal household; a spy, which he isn't because nobody would send a boy that age to spy on anyone; or he's here for personal reasons, which for a young man means a woman. If he'd been sniffing around one of the Duchess's ladies-in-waiting or even a servant she would have either arranged their marriage by now or sent him home with his peck…his tail between his legs. So what does that leave?"

There were times, Wolsey mused, that it was easy to forget how intelligent Joan truly was. "I'm unable to fault your logic," he said once he'd picked his jaw off the floor, "but I must fault your timing. He's not Her Grace's lover – not since last Thursday, at least." And he smiled.

It was her turn to show amazement. "Saints preserve us. Does the King know?"

"He was there, as was I – and I must say, your table is clearly superior to Her Grace's. This veal is exquisite."

Any other woman would have been mortally offended not to have been involved in as great a matter as a royal wedding, no matter how discreet, but Joan merely smiled, pride suffusing her face. "One cannot expect a great lady to have the knowledge to hire a good cook on her own," she said modestly, gesturing to the groom to serve the cheese tarts. "Are they intending to formally announce the marriage? I suppose they have to."

"There's no hard and fast rule, but I suspect the news will eventually emerge. Do you believe the people would accept it?"

She laughed. "The people don't care, love, but they might wonder at her morals if they realize it wasn't arranged. If I were the King I'd pretend I ordered her to marry him; no matter who he is, they'll assume he was the best a barren woman could get."

Astounding. "That's exactly how the King is handling it," he told her. "Perhaps you should be on the Privy Council instead of me."

"And perhaps pigs should fly, Tom."

Once lunch was over he returned to his study, first checking out the window for any signs of porcine levitation, and scratched out a note to the King – and one to the Duchess herself, taking care to salute her as "Madame". As he sealed the notes, he thought back to Joan's words. Savoy…

He reached out and touched the bell on his desk. "Rob," he said as his principal secretary entered the room, "what do we know about the Duke of Savoy?"

"Greedy, selfish, and unintelligent, Your Grace," Rushton replied. "He's also constantly at odds with France."

"And therefore with Mantua," he mused. "No, it'll have to be Portugal."

"Sir?"

He shook his head and handed Rob the note addressed to the King. "Never mind. Take this message to Westminster; tell Bishop Ruthall it's urgent. As for this one…" He looked down at the folded paper and picked up his pen to address it to the Duchess…but at the last moment he thought better of it and wrote down another name. "This one I want you to take to Banstead," he said, handing the note to Rushton, "and I'd like it to arrive by supper if at all possible."

"I can get a royal barge to Richmond and…" The boy's voice trailed away as he caught sight of the name Wolsey had written on the letter. "Sir, Your Grace…are you sure?"

"Trust me: I can't think of anything she'd like better."

He still seemed hesitant but, knowing his place, he bowed and left.

A little thing it was, he supposed as Mary returned with Tom, but it never hurt to spread a little goodwill around – and had there ever been an easier way to do so than to write three simple words, in French?

 _À Madame Chapuys._

He didn't think so.


	22. For a Queen Hath Majesty, Part 1

Please note that this chapter is again being posted in two parts due to technical limitations.

* * *

18 December 1510  
Palace of Placentia

Eleanor barely noticed the heady incense, the voices of the choir, the chill of bitter winter, the lace brushing against her cheek. Her tightly shut eyes blocked out the icons, the soft candlelight gleaming off the gold thurible, the boys surrounding the Dean as he carried the cross into the chapel. Even her husband beside her – and the ladies and lords of the court behind them – failed to register. Prayer was her world: prayer, response, holy song.

This might be the last High Mass she ever attended.

As if in a trance she took Communion, accepting the body of the Lord who had died for her, the blood of the Lord that had been shed for her. If she'd given Henry the kiss of peace she didn't remember it.

Dr. Atwater's dismissal came all too soon; she more sensed than felt Henry take her hand. "I've said prayers to St. Anselm and St. Margaret this morning," he said in low tones as she blinked herself back to reality. "I can't even begin to imagine."

It was kind of him to try, of course; it was certainly more than most of her ladies-in-waiting were willing to do. They might have fought the dragon of childbirth and won, but their battles had for the most part taken place so long ago that they no longer felt the fiery blast of the beast's breath. One day they gently tutted her fears; the next they told each other horror stories of births they'd witnessed, not caring if she overheard them. But there were women who fully understood how dangerous the battle would be: her mother-in-law Elizabeth, her grandmother Margaret, her aunt Beatrice, her cousin Maria, the French Queen. They held her hand as she slept, they knelt beside her at Mass, they walked with her through the corridors of the palace as she took her exercise, they lifted their voices in prayer begging God to protect her. She couldn't see them or hear them but she was certain they were there, knew they would mobilize their armies of protective saints at the first clarion blast.

Her aunt Beatrice had been twenty-one when she'd died giving birth to a son…a stillborn son…a dead son…

Before fear could choke her again she squeezed Henry's hand and swept that thought right out of her mind. Her child, she told herself, would live.

Archbishop Bainbridge led the way to the Great Hall, his aspergillum held high before them as he dashed holy water onto the rushes. A smaller room by far than those at Westminster or Richmond, Placentia's Great Hall was sombrely decorated as befitted the Advent season. Seven days, she thought, until Christmas; seven days until the wreaths and boughs went up, until the Yule log was carried in by the Vikings and lit in the great fireplace. She well knew how hungry the courtiers were for the delicacies they'd been forced to give up; she could see it in their envious eyes at every meal.

She was healthy enough that she'd rarely been excused from fasting before, and certainly never during a major fast such as Advent or Lent. She couldn't say she exactly missed the meagre diet of fish, vegetables, and bread, but she did regret the loss of that sweetest of innocent pleasures: the first mouthful of succulent ham or rich pastry on Christmas morning.

Of course, she wouldn't be celebrating Christmas this year at all.

She and Henry entered the chamber, taking their seats under the canopy of estate as her Chamberlain, Lord Mountjoy, approached with the traditional goblet of hot spiced wine. "May Your Highness have a comfortable confinement and a safe birth," he said, handing the cup to her, "and may you emerge with a Prince of Wales in your arms!"

"I thank you, my lord." She sipped at the wine, the heady scents of cinnamon, nutmeg and ginger dancing in her nose. For a moment – a blink of an eye – she imagined herself back in her father's palace, dancing with her baby sister Ippolita in her arms as the fragrance of costly spices wafted through their bedchamber from the ships docked in the Mincio under their windows. But it was only a whisper: the cheers of the crowd brought her back to reality far too soon, reminding her that she was no longer child, daughter, and maiden but a married woman and Queen of England – and by the January full moon, likely to be a mother.

Henry's voice cut through the cacophony. "Might I ask, my lord," he said in tones so mild that only Eleanor could hear the menace, "that we instead pray for the Queen to emerge from confinement completely recovered and with a healthy child? We may all wish for a prince – and I certainly join in that – but we should not go so far as to thumb our noses at God's will should He choose in His infinite and holy wisdom to bestow upon us a fine princess."

Mountjoy's face paled; Eleanor suddenly remembered that his first wife had died birthing his daughter. "Naturally the health of mother and child is paramount, Majesty," he replied with an apologetic dip of his head, "and I do agree that God's will must never be opposed. To the Queen!"

"The Queen!"

She raised her goblet to the assembled lords and ladies once they had drunk her health, quietly thanking them for their support – and they had indeed supported her beyond her expectations. The Italians had spoken of English frigidity and reserve but in honesty she found the courtiers of Henry's court no different than those of her father's: shallow, pious, ambitious, charitable, ruthless, and sentimental all at once, and kind, too – almost as kind to her as Henry had been.

On the whole she considered herself fortunate in her husband. He didn't beat her, didn't insult her in bed as many husbands did their wives, encouraged her in what the court quaintly termed her 'eccentricities' – her interest in the planets and stars, her dogs, her passion for the written word. If she craved oranges he'd send to Portugal for a crate; if she desired a certain Italian wine or a new Mastino bitch there'd be a ship on its way to the Mediterranean that day. He'd risen early to carry her easel and pencils the morning of the October lunar eclipse; he'd even bought her a French astrolabe last month. He was also the only person in the kingdom who didn't seem to care whether she bore a boy or a girl.

She only wished she could have saved him.

The churchmen claimed hope could move mountains, but in her experience hope was little more than a newborn puppy: appealing and engaging but weak and ultimately incapable of sustaining itself without help. Her hope that Henry would be transformed and redeemed by the marriage bed – a hope she hadn't admitted even to herself at the time – had withered and died on the vine after their wedding night. He hadn't been able to look at her; his eyes clamped firmly shut, visions of his _finocchio_ doubtless dancing behind his lids, he'd performed his duty as best he could – but there was no question that he'd loathed every moment. Not even her reassurance that she didn't mind his distraction had been enough to break the tension and open his heart. The early signs of pregnancy had come as a relief to them both, and if she sometimes wondered if she should have married Urbino instead and taken a true man to her bed, even for a few short months…

Then again, if she'd married Urbino he wouldn't have gone to war against her father and he would likely still be alive. The will of God – or man, perhaps – was powerful indeed.

She swallowed the last of the wine and surrendered the goblet back to Lord Mountjoy before allowing Henry, Archbishop Bainbridge, and the Dukes of Norfolk and Buckingham to lead her upstairs to the rooms that had been prepared for her confinement.

Confinement: imprisonment by any other name.

At least, she thought as they climbed the wide, curving staircase, it would be comfortable. Every detail of the ordeal was set out in The Royal Book, that supposedly ancient collection of rules and regulations compiled – and no doubt invented, in its worst parts – by Henry's grandmother Margaret Beaufort. The Book specified everything from the details of the embroidery on her coverlet to the amount of shelving the midwives would have for their instruments. Fortunately her Italian midwife had been able to win concessions for her on some matters of custom that were not addressed directly in the Book; Eleanor would not have to spend the entire month flat on her back, and she would be allowed visitors until Twelfth Night – but female visitors only. Until she gave birth no man, not even the King, would be permitted access.

All too soon she found herself before the thick oaken doors. They weren't her usual apartments; fearful of the baleful influence of the east wind blowing off the North Sea, the royal physicians had selected rooms for her in the west wing that looked down into the peaceful middle court. Another extravagant concession the midwife had secured for her: she would be allowed to undrape two windows, not one.

"My Queen," Henry said as she did her best to curtsy and the court fell to their knees, "may you pass your confinement in comfort and prayer, and may you – may you both – emerge in perfect health." He leaned in and lowered his voice to a whisper. "The rules are clear that men cannot enter the confinement chamber, but I noticed they say nothing about males in general. I'll have Nerone and Fedele brought to you every day until Twelfth Night."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Thank you," she whispered back as he gently helped her back up. "Pray for me."

"Every waking hour," he replied. "Every single hour without fail; I give you my word."

And that, for all his faults, was something she knew she could always depend upon.

She stepped into the anteroom, ignoring the knell of the door swinging shut behind her, and accepted the curtseys of the ladies who would serve as her household during her confinement. "Are my rooms ready?" she asked, motioning for them to rise.

Lady Shrewsbury, her chamberlain for the time she would spend confined, was the first to speak. "The furniture was delivered by Lords Dorset and Essex this morning, Your Highness."

"Everything is in place, and we hope Your Highness finds the accommodations comfortable," Lady Derby added. "May we accompany you in?"

She nodded, trying not to tremble.

The main room was hot and dim, the only light coming from the roaring fire and a few candles positioned randomly around the womblike chamber. The walls and ceiling were covered in heavy, dark tapestries depicting stories suitable for a breeding woman; the floor was strewn with thick carpets that made it a challenge for her to even walk. As her eyes adjusted she could make out the vast bed of state in the middle of the room, and beside it the pallet upon which she would fight the battle of her life. "It all seems quite…"

"Elaborate?" Lady Essex suggested.

"Oppressive." She turned to Lady Shrewsbury. "Where is the cradle, may I ask?"

The countess's nose went up half an inch. "Your Highness's midwives stored it away. They considered its proximity to the close stool inappropriate."

"And rightly so," old Lady Ferrers interjected, her wimple quivering. "One can never be too careful with a prince. Why, I remember back when His Majesty's mother was brought to bed the last time. I'll never forget how the poor babe gasped for breath…"

"Now, Lizbet," Lady Wiltshire crooned, placing a hand on the dowager's arm. "Let's not get into that right now. Perhaps we could show Her Highness around the chamber?"

Eleanor let out the breath she'd been holding. "Thank you."

The room was large but there wasn't much to show, as it contained little more than her bed and pallet, sleeping pallets for her ladies, and scattered tables and chairs. She noted in passing that the tapestries against the east wall were thinner than the others and strung along a rod rather than being tacked to the wall. "What's behind there?" she asked Lady Wiltshire.

She pulled the cloth aside, revealing three doors. "The doors on the left lead to the kitchens and the midwives' chambers," she said. "You need not concern yourself with those. The third leads to your chapel."

"My chapel!"

By then Lady Shrewsbury had rejoined them. "There's nothing in the Book that allows for a chapel," she said, "but His Majesty was adamant that Your Highness have a place to make private confession, and there was nothing in the Book prohibiting the construction of such a room."

She wrinkled her nose at the sharp scent of fresh paint and plaster as she stepped past Lady Derby into the chamber, one of the maids following with candles. It was tiny, no more than six feet by five, and held only a simple kneeler and a small gold crucifix suspended above a grate flanked by a hatch and a narrow door. "I assume Father Giacomo will be on the other side when I call for him?" she asked.

"Yes, Highness," Lady Shrewsbury replied. "You may of course ask for him whenever you wish, day or night. The hatch is for the Host should you choose to receive Communion, and the door is in case he's needed quickly."

 _She means if I die_ , she thought. No priest was needed to baptize a dying newborn; even a woman could validly perform that sacrament in an emergency. The final offices for those who had reached the age of reason, however, could only be performed by a priest.

Somehow recognizing Eleanor's sudden turn of mood, Lady Shrewsbury whisked her out of the chapel and back into her room. "Shall we call for dinner, Highness?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, please. I am allowed to eat, aren't I?"

Her joke went over like wet fireworks. "Of course, Highness; you may eat whenever you wish," she replied, her eyebrows raised in surprise. She turned to the maid of honour hovering beside them. "Mistress Wentworth, please fetch the Queen's dinner."

She returned to the bed and sank into the thick, soft mattress, wondering how she'd ever stand up again. She'd always been fairly slim but at the moment she felt like one of the Doge of Venice's elephants. Her arms were still thin, her face too, but her legs were like tree trunks – and the less said about her body the better. No wonder God led women to love their babies sight unseen, she mused; who would endure this for any reason but love?

Love…

At least she would have a child to fill the hole in her heart. Not every woman had that opportunity. Look at Katherine: was she really happier than Eleanor? Perhaps she loved her husband – although what a woman that highly born could see in a mere commoner eluded her – but she would never feel his child moving in her belly, would never hold it in her arms, would never fulfill her destiny as a woman to give her lord and master an heir. Certainly it was not her fault, but it was still a shame to see any woman robbed of her fertility.

She suddenly groaned as a well-placed kick sent shooting pains across her side. "It's the rib again, Margherita," she said in Italian, rubbing her right flank as the midwife rushed over. "He won't leave off."

The older woman took over, pressing gently into the sore spot until the pain receded. "You might not believe it now, Highness, but kicking is an excellent sign. When he does not kick is when we worry."

"Then my mind will be perpetually at rest."

Perhaps Katherine wasn't that badly off.

Dinner followed, then prayers, then supper, then more prayers. It was the same every day. Every morning she awoke in near-darkness, pushing aside the suffocating draperies and calling for her windows to be opened; every afternoon she lay on her bed, unable to do much other than read or watch her ladies sew. The only breaks in the tedious routine were the daily visits from her dogs (to much tutting from Lady Essex) and from the ladies of the court. Katherine and Mary in particular visited every day during Christmastide, Mary going so far as to smuggle in a serving of English mince pie, a truly foul-smelling melange that Margherita thankfully intercepted before she was forced to try it. Not for the first time she wondered how the English could enjoy such vile food with such gusto. It was indeed fortunate that her mother had sent a dozen Italian chefs to England in the ship that had followed hers.

That voyage to England had been the strangest event of her short life. It had been arranged by her father and Henry's then Almoner, Dr. Wolsey, virtuosos of subtlety both, who had taken advantage of the break in the Italian wars to spirit her off to England. Not wanting to raise suspicions, Father had told his underlings he was taking Eleanor to the shrine of Santiago de Compostela to give thanks – for what he hadn't said – but it was only after they had passed through the Pillars of Hercules that he told the sailors of their ultimate destination. Fortunately the gold he'd promised to disburse on the return journey had silenced the sailors' tongues and the story of their ship being blown off course by a storm had been accepted by everyone in England. Everyone, she corrected herself, except Henry; he'd seen through the ruse from the first. He'd told her later that had Dr. Wolsey and her father not arranged for her to be brought to England he might have delayed marriage for years, something that in retrospect would have been 'unwise', as he'd put it.

Was it then, she wondered, that she'd finally realized she would never touch his heart? Hearing one's marriage and pregnancy described as a 'wise decision' shouldn't smart; after all, Urbino would have probably said the same thing had she married him.

Poor Maddalena. Urbino's widow and orphan would never starve, of course; her child would be Duke or Duchess from birth, and Italian honour would never permit them to be left in want. But to be born without a father…what could be worse?

 _To be without mother and father_ , she quickly answered herself. Anne Wingfield's child would likely lose its mother the day it was born. Henry might have been willing to forgive her for simply threatening his life – for it was obvious Charles Brandon had intended no less than a palace coup – but he would never forgive her for betraying Princess Mary. Eleanor considered Henry quite right in his refusal to extend mercy to Mistress Wingfield, for there was no greater sin than to play the Judas against one's sworn lord or lady.

A great storm hit on the 28th, blanketing the courtyard in thick, wet snow. "It should clear tomorrow," Jane Wentworth said as she peeked out the window. "Do you hope the child will be born soon, Highness?"

YES, she wanted to scream. Her back ached and her belly itched and her feet felt like flippers, and she was entirely sick of it all. But she stopped herself; it was God's decision, not hers, and she should not tempt fate. "I hardly know," she said instead. "I've always felt a touch of resentment that my birthday falls in Christmastide…although I suppose it's better than Princess Mary, whose birthday falls every year in Lent."

Margherita tutted them as she approached the bed carrying a posset cup. "I do not believe Your Highness will deliver before Plough Monday at the earliest. But no matter what happens, Your Highness must drink this to ward off the bad effects of the North Sea wind."

She made a face but complied. The midwife had a magic hand with possets; they were always curdled, bland, and far too sweet.

The next day dawned clear and brilliant as Jane had predicted. Eleanor ordered both windows to be undraped at sunrise, taking the opportunity to look out into the courtyard below where the deep snow had already been befouled by the footsteps of men and horses. "The servants were up early," she said to Lady Shrewsbury, who was just returning from the anteroom.

But instead of answering her the countess gently wrapped an arm around her shoulders and led her back to her bed. "A courier arrived from Paris at three, Highness," she said as Eleanor lowered herself onto the coverlet. "I know not the news but the maids say the King was woken."

A shiver of fear suddenly flew up her spine. A 'courier from Paris' likely brought news from the French court, it was true, but envoys from across Europe – including Mantua – often sent messages through Sir Thomas Boleyn's embassy, and something she couldn't begin to explain suddenly clutched at her heart. "Would you bring me the St. Anselm amulet?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"Of course, Highness."

 _Let the news be good_ , she begged the saint once she had his amulet in her hands; _if there be calamity let it fall on the deserving only. Keep my family safe; pray for them._

A knock suddenly came at the door; she looked up to see Lady Derby rushing away. "I wouldn't worry, Madam," Lady Shrewsbury said, patting her hand. "Doubtless it's only news from Spain telling that the King of Aragon has been rescued by God from the prison of his body."

But that was going much too far. "Madam," Eleanor said in a voice even she didn't recognize, "I must remind you that the King of Aragon is the Duchess of Somerset's father. We should not hope for her to receive such news at Christmastide."

The countess's hand froze and her mouth dropped open in shock but before she could reply Lady Derby returned to them with a letter in her hand, her face showing intense relief. "It's the King of France, Your Highness; he fell from his horse on St. Stephen's Day, and – let's just say that prayers for his recovery would not go amiss."

"And no news from Mantua?" she asked, letting out the breath she'd been holding.

"Just the usual from your father, Highness, which the messenger happened to bring at the same time."

She gave silent thanks to St. Anselm but could not deny that the intense relief coursing through her was just as sinful as Lady Shrewsbury's thoughtless comment. "Lady Derby," she said, taking the letter from her, "please summon Father Giacomo to hear my confession, for I have grievously sinned. Lady Shrewsbury, I would ask you to spend the morning in prayer yourself, asking God to restore both King Ferdinand and King Louis to health."

She flushed. "Of course, Your Highness; I apologize."

The countess might be more than twice her age, she thought, but she was still the Queen.

Eleanor was awoken early the morning of the 31st by the strangest sensation. "Signora Kendall," she cried, awakening her ladies, "something's happening! Am I…I can't be…"

Her English midwife was by her side before she could finish the sentence. "Highness?"

"I have a funny feeling – a tightening in my back…it's—"

"Like a cramp?"

She nodded.

Joan Kendall examined her but could only shake her head. "I can't be certain but I don't believe Your Highness is in labour. Mistress Wentworth, please assist the Queen to the close stool."

"The…I cannot simply need to…"

"A lady's body often practices beforehand, Your Highness," the midwife said as they helped her to her feet in the dim firelight. "Voiding will often lessen or stop the contraction, as will standing up and walking a few steps. Is it very painful?"

She shook her head. "It's just…unusual. I've never felt such a thing before."

Fortunately the midwife had been right and the sensation disappeared as soon as she emptied her bladder. Feeling rather foolish at having woken her entire household at dawn, she asked Jane to bring her the book she'd borrowed from Katherine and returned to bed, opening the curtains to let in the light of the fire. It was only by a quirk of fate that Eleanor could read Spanish well enough to understand _Amadís de Gaula_ ; her old governess, Donna Isabella, was from a family that had escaped Moorish Granada a century earlier, and she had taught Eleanor and her brother the language she'd called _cristiano_ along with French and, much later, a smattering of English.

The tale of Amadís and Oriana and their tortured, patient love so captivated her that she didn't notice morning had arrived until Lady Essex interrupted her with breakfast. "Happy birthday, Your Highness," she said as the maids placed trays loaded with ham, eggs, and all manner of good things on the table beside her bed. "Shall I undrape both windows? It's clear and bright outside."

"If you would," she replied, her stomach already growling. "It still seems strange to eat without having the food blessed in my presence; Father Giacomo must rise very early."

"I believe His Majesty has Bishop Fisher bless the food for your table, Highness. You'd have to go far to find a man more sincerely pious than His Grace of Rochester." She shook her head. "How such a good man rose to become bishop I'll never know. Lord Essex thinks His Majesty intends to make him Archbishop one day, with God's grace."

A pious dream, Eleanor thought as she brought a slice of ham to her lips; Henry was far too practical to prize devotion above usefulness. If any man was in the running to be the next Archbishop of Canterbury it was Thomas Wolsey.

She was just finishing her meal when a knock came at the outer door; moments later Nerone and Fedele flew into the room, snorting greetings to her as Lady Essex scowled and left the room. "Did you two have a good time with Juan in the snow this morning?"

"I've been told they ran around the palace with Lord Richmond three times, Highness," Lady Wiltshire said. "They certainly are powerful animals, and loyal as well; they run to you like the wind."

"Loyal they are, but I also have ham," she laughed as they gobbled up the tidbits she'd saved for them and sniffed around for more. "You'd better return the trays to the kitchen before there isn't anything left for the poor."

That afternoon brought her birthday celebrations, such as they were. "Katherine's bringing Henry's present," Princess Mary said from her chair beside the bed, handing her a parcel wrapped in silk. "This is from me."

"That's very kind; thank you." She unwrapped the cloth to find a beautifully worked set of handkerchiefs, the edges picked out in Mantuan gold and black. "By your own needle, Mary? They're lovely!"

The girl blushed. "I hope you like them. I know they're not much, but I did work hard…"

"But nothing!" she cried. "You know how poorly I sew; this is a thoughtful and useful gift. Thank you."

Just then Katherine entered the room, parcels in hand. "Your Highness, I wish you a happy birthday," she said, curtseying. "How are you feeling?"

"Pathetic, if you must know. My back keeps cramping." She gestured to the maid of honour to bring another chair. "Please sit and tell me of the festivities so I don't feel so left out. Did the Duchess of Buckingham really present Henry with a peacock?"

"She certainly did. And Lord Abergavenny and his new wife – you did hear he remarried on St. Stephen's Day? Well, they brought…"

They chatted companionably for some time about the courtiers who were arriving by the dozen and the hundreds of gifts being exchanged. "I only hope the Company of Goldsmiths recognizes Henry's contribution to its members' well-being," Katherine added, handing her one of the parcels, "although I understand this gift isn't their work."

It was far too light, she thought, as she silently unwrapped the dark damask to find a book bound in finely tooled and embroidered leather. Opening the front cover she recognized Henry's impossibly tidy penmanship on the first page. "Elegio della Follia," she read off the title page.

"The English title is 'In Praise of Folly'," Mary explained, "although the original essay is in Latin. Brother Erasmus is planning to publish it next year but he sent a copy to Henry this autumn, and he spent most of November working on the translation. He said you almost caught him at it two or three times."

She couldn't have stopped the tears if she'd tried. "This-this is the best gift anyone's ever given me," she finally got out. "He translated a book for me."

"He knows how fortunate he is in his wife," Katherine said, squeezing her hand in sympathy.

"And that's just for your birthday," Mary chirped. "All of us – all of your family – have separate gifts for your birthday and New Year's."

She could only nod her head in thanks and dab at her eyes with one of her new handkerchiefs. Not even her parents, as good as they were, had gone so far.

Lady Derby suddenly slipped through the door and curtseyed. "Your Highness," she said at Eleanor's nod, "His Majesty wishes you to know that Bishop de Villiers has just arrived and is begging a private audience with him on a matter of great importance."

Her eyes met Katherine's: the French ambassador! "Thank you, Anne," she said, her eyes suddenly dry as bone. "Please send someone downstairs to bring back whatever news there is. Is anyone free?"

"I could go!" Mary cried, rising to her feet. "That is, if Your Highness allows it. I'm sure your ladies are very busy."

That wasn't exactly true but she could see that the girl was quivering with curiosity, and no wonder. "Thank you."

Once the door had closed behind her, Eleanor turned back to Katherine. "She must be on pins and needles. I pray to God Henry doesn't marry her to François, but if Louis dies they're going to push for it."

"On paper it seems the perfect match," Katherine replied. "I'm sure Henry will insist he be examined by a physician if it does goes forward, but Dr. de Victoria says the great pox isn't always obvious in its early stages. I only hope the Dauphin is safe; a royal court can be a dangerous place for the weak and unprotected."

The flicker of pain in Katherine's eyes was so palpable that she thought it best to change the subject. "How is Lord Richmond this morning?" she asked as her back twinged again. "I hear he's been taking Fedele and Nerone out for their morning exercise."

Her mood was instantly transformed. "I'm sure he'd wish to thank you for allowing him the chance," she said. "He adores your dogs and they obey him without hesitation, which is fortunate because none of us can catch up to them. I only wish Doña Lina were still here with us; she was very good with animals – and Juan still misses her terribly, as do I."

"I understand she's a gracious lady," Eleanor ventured, watching Katherine carefully for any sign…

But she merely nodded. "Gracious she is, and loyal to a fault. My Esmeralda…" A shadow passed over her face. "Had she simply spoken to me, told me she couldn't tolerate the situation, I would have sent her home to Spain with the dowry I promised her or found her a good English husband. What reward did she expect for deceiving me? At least Charles Brandon anticipated a dukedom, at the very least."

It was her time to reach over and give Katherine's hand a squeeze. "You couldn't have known."

Her lips grew thin. "Thank you, but it is at heart my fault; one cannot flout convention with impunity and not expect to pay the price. But let's not talk about that," she said, smiling again as she held out a large parcel to her. "This is from Juan. I'm afraid they're not the fine works of art your other gifts are, but…"

"But nothing," she reassured her as she pried open the box to reveal two massive leather dog collars – a little unevenly studded, but more precious for all that. "He didn't fashion these himself, did he?" she exclaimed.

Katherine was glowing with pride. "He had Master Parry's help, I will admit, but they are for the most part his own work. I'm sorry there are only two but we haven't told him about Berenice; we didn't want him to pester you for puppies the moment you emerged from confinement."

"No, that's…" She was still admiring the boy's handiwork. "Would you give him my thanks? It's a lovely gift."

"I will be certain to. And this," she said, handing her the last gaudily-wrapped box, "is from Eustache and me – more Eustache, actually, since he designed it."

She untied the ribbon and pried open the box – and her breath stopped in her throat. "Oh, Katherine," she gasped, "this is exquisite."

The circular brooch featured a large oval cabochon onyx surrounded by dark pearls and cut topaz interspersed with the double tail of the Mantua lion in fine gold. "It reminds me of home," she said, the tears flowing again.

"That was our hope. Monsieur Boursin – the goldsmith Eustache engaged – thought you would like it."

She pinned the brooch to her bodice. "I love it. I'll wear it the rest of the day and treasure it always. Please give him my thanks – and I thank you as well."

It wasn't a minute until Princess Mary returned. "Did Bishop de Villiers have any news?" Eleanor asked as she motioned for her to rise from her curtsy and retake her seat.

"King Louis still lives as far as he knows, Highness; that's not why His Excellency is here." She looked around, then leaned in and theatrically lowered her voice. "Louis left instructions appointing the Seigneur de Chaumont as Regent!"

Eleanor's mouth dropped open; even Katherine seemed surprised. "The Marshal of France? But the Duke of Valois is of age!"

Mary nodded. "Henry asked if the instructions dated back to before François turned sixteen but His Excellency said they were signed the day after the Dauphin was born."

"After…" Katherine murmured. "He doesn't trust François with his son, and I'd warrant Chaumont is wise enough not to trust him either."

"Which means Chaumont won't want me to marry him, praise God and all the saints," the girl finished, relief colouring her voice as she crossed herself. "He'd never take the chance of Henry joining with him against the old King or the new."

They both reached out to her, Eleanor taking one hand and Katherine the other. "Henry would never have forced you to marry him even if they'd asked for you," Eleanor said, although she wasn't sure how true that was.

"Never," Katherine agreed. "He might wish to see you an anointed Queen one day but he would never marry you to anyone against your will, let alone a mere heir presumptive."

Her face was grim. "I wouldn't have said a word against it if he had. It would have been my duty to obey."

How far the girl had come in nine short months, Eleanor thought; in March she would have been shrieking nonsense about her 'freedom'. "Mary," she said, "would you be so kind as to ask Dr. Atwater to have more masses said for King Louis on my behalf in all the Chapels Royal?"

"I would be honoured, Highness."

Lady Shrewsbury broke into their conversation. "Forgive me, Your Highness, Your Grace, but the Queen must rest."

"Then we will leave," Katherine said. "The last thing we would ever wish to do is overtire her."

She and Mary rose to their feet and curtseyed, taking their leave with smiles and promises to return the next day. She envied them so much at that moment for being young, free, slim, and above all not pregnant, but she tamped down those emotions long enough to wish them a good evening. She was so tired of it all…

But no, she thought: that wasn't the whole story.

She was envious of Katherine, it was true. She was so effortlessly regal, so contained and sure in her movements, with a grace and dignity Eleanor couldn't even begin to imitate. At the same time, though, she felt terribly sorry for her. For such a noble princess to be reduced to marrying a rustic notary's son, love or not…

Old King Henry had a lot to answer for.

She wondered if she would have ever seen through the cloud of lies and misdirections had little Juan not become so deeply attached to her dogs over the summer. Of course she could never be absolutely certain; given King Ferdinand's reputation it was remotely possible that Katherine and this Doña Lina were half-sisters. But that was the only innocent explanation she could imagine for the striking resemblance she'd noted over the past few months. Oh, the boy had the deep-set eyes, high cheekbones, and long face clearly visible in Margaret Beaufort's portrait, but then there was that soft upper lip with the wide Cupid's bow, that plump little chin, those pale blue eyes, and above all that remarkable serenity, rare enough even in a king's son at that age: all distinctive traits that proclaimed his mother as loudly as the rest of his face proclaimed his grandmother.

That said, she understood completely why Katherine would never claim him in life. There was no question in Eleanor's mind that she would never have freely given herself to her father-in-law; she might take a secret lover but her sense of propriety would never permit her to so much as touch a man so closely related to her as Henry Tudor the Elder without valid dispensation. It must therefore have been by force – but that would never protect her here, as the English believed a woman could only conceive a child in pleasure.

What rot.

The child she had conceived in tedium suddenly squirmed inside her. _Poor thing,_ she thought. _God has raised you high; whether King of England or Queen of France, your destiny is a throne, and I must make you fit to reign – and protect you from those who would tear you apart. God forbid you ever be subjected to your own Henry VII._

* * *

Continued in Part 2...


	23. For a Queen Hath Majesty, Part 2

Continued from Part 1.

* * *

1 January 1511  
Palace of Placentia

Mary and Katherine returned the next morning bearing even more gifts – and, unfortunately, a guest. "Lady Warwick, how very good of you to visit!" Eleanor lied. "I hope you and your family are keeping a happy Christmastide. Please, ladies: sit."

The rat-faced countess's crimson overgown rustled around her as she rose from her showy curtsy and took one of the chairs the maids brought over. "We are indeed keeping a very joyful season, Your Highness," she said, "thanks to His Majesty's kindness and generosity and the benevolence of Our Lord Jesus Christ, who died on the lonely cross so that we poor sinners—"

Eleanor struggled to emulate Katherine's demeanour as Margaret Pole expounded at length on God's goodness, Henry's grace, her own family's dedication to Jesus, and the risks inherent in excessive Christmas celebration. Perhaps it was understandable that she felt the need to preach; the contrast between the secular world and the abbey in which she unwillingly spent five long years during the old king's reign must still loom large. Yet Eleanor found her as difficult to take as Mary clearly did. She only prayed she wasn't showing her impatience on her face to the same extent.

"—and although His Majesty wished me not to attend you during your confinement due to Lord Montagu's illness, I must assure you that he is now perfectly well and—"

She reached out and grasped her hand, smiling up into her face to soften the sting of the interruption. "Of course you would never appear at court if your son were not fully recovered. You are one of His Majesty's most loyal subjects; we all know that."

"I thank Your Highness most sincerely," she said, her voice almost breaking with emotion. "I…I only wish His Majesty's father had shown the same mercy to my family as your most noble husband has. I can only credit the beneficial influence of his mother Queen Elizabeth, that good lady of the royal house of York, whose compassion must have so often been tried by her husband's harsh, cruel nature."

Out of the corner of her eye Eleanor saw Katherine flinch for just an instant before reassuming the serene, contented expression she wore like a mask. How difficult it must be for her, she thought; how difficult for all those who had suffered under the old king.

She stepped in to redirect the conversation. "I understand you received a gold cup from His Majesty for New Year's, Lady Warwick."

"I did, and a kind gesture it was, Highness," she said. "I must also thank you for your New Year's gifts to myself and to my children. Reginald especially asked me to thank you for the medal you chose for him. He's always had a special connection to St. Catherine of Alexandria but he was astounded you knew of it; he says he'll wear the medal until the day he dies."

"It is not so astounding," Katherine said, breaking into the conversation. "Reginald is a good friend of my page, Master Sugg, who made the suggestion."

Lady Warwick turned in her seat, frowning. "Is Ethelred in Your Grace's household now? I must have forgotten. His father was a saintly man, although not highborn; I do hope that he isn't too rough for a royal household. I know how badly common people can…" Her face suddenly flushed. "Not that I would expect churlish behaviour from every commoner, of course; I would never …"

Katherine patted her hand, every inch the gracious princess. "Of course not, Margaret. Did you not mention earlier that the King wished you to return to the Great Hall with Lord Montagu by ten?"

Relief flooded her face. "You're absolutely right, Your Grace; His Majesty is doubtless expecting us. If Your Highness would excuse me?"

"Of course," she said, fiercely quashing the laughter threatening to bubble up. "Happy New Year, Lady Warwick."

"And to you, Highness."

Mary heaved the sigh Eleanor wished she could as the door swung shut. "Why did she even bother?" she asked. "She hasn't said ten words to Your Highness since you arrived in England."

But it was Katherine who answered. "The reason is no great secret – but I believe it to be inappropriate for the confinement chamber. Perhaps we should instead give Her Highness our New Year's gifts and tell her of those from the King."

 _Tell her?_

"Oh, yes!" Mary handed the unwieldy bundle in her hands to Eleanor, who was still mystified by Katherine's comments. "This is mine, Highness."

She untied it to find two gorgeously embroidered linen smocks. "I…I must thank you again," she stammered, overwhelmed by the girl's generosity; each of them must have taken a month or more to work. "Your skill with a needle puts every lady in England to shame."

She blushed under the praise. "I've been taking lessons from Lady Seymour; I hope some day to possess her abilities."

"Don't be so modest. You are well on the way to eclipsing her needlework, if you have not already done so."

She next opened Katherine's present, finding a pair of delicate gold earrings to match the brooch she'd received the day before. "They're beautiful! I wish I were allowed out of bed or I'd put them on. Lady Essex," she called, "would you place these with the brooch in the top tier of my jewelry chest?"

"Yes, Highness."

Eleanor turned back to Katherine. "I will wear both on the day of my child's christening. Thank you so much – and please thank Monsieur Chapuys as well. He's very talented."

"You're most welcome," she replied, "but did I hear right? I thought you were allowed the freedom of your room – such as it is."

"The midwives have decided to keep me in bed for the next few days." She flicked a glance at Mary, then returned her gaze to the duchess. "There is sufficient reason, I assure you."

Fortunately Katherine caught on immediately and nodded, another sign she understood exactly what she was going through. "I should tell you that Henry is delighted with your chess set."

"I'm glad he likes it. Has he received any more strange gifts, other than the Duchess's peacock?"

Mary suddenly let out a strangled giggle.

"Not received, no," Katherine replied, her eyes so wide Eleanor realized with amazement that she was struggling not to laugh. "He has however chosen to present Your Highness with two New Year's gifts, the first of which he hopes you will enjoy when you return to—"

"It's a lion," Mary tittered.

She could feel her jaw drop. "A…you mean a brooch or a…"

Katherine shook her head, her voice quivering with suppressed glee. "No, not a jewel: an adult male lion for the menagerie in the Tower, intended as a 'token of his love and esteem'."

 _A lion?!_

Her lips were moving but no sound was coming out. He couldn't have actually thought…it was simply… "Why…how…?"

But by then Katherine had pressed a hand to her mouth and was unable to answer, while Mary was laughing so hard she could hardly get the words out. "He-he thought you might wish for a lioness next year, so they could…"

Whatever she had been about to say flew out of her mind. What was she supposed to do with…how was she supposed to care for…why had he got the idea that…

And the inanity of the situation suddenly hit her. She fell back on the pillow, convulsed with laughter—

—until a sudden wetness reminded her why she was restricted to bed.

 _Damn_.

Before she could say a word Margherita and Joan were at her side. "Your Highness, Your Grace, I'm afraid we need to…"

"Of course," Katherine said, her face suddenly pale with concern. "Mary, I think it would be best if we left for now."

The girl was instantly alarmed. "Is everything all right? We didn't hurt you…"

But before she could say anything more Katherine spirited the girl away and Eleanor's ladies descended upon her for the fourth time since dawn. Joan had told her that the sudden lack of control was a sign she was about to 'drop', that mysterious occurrence the midwives constantly referred to but never explained except with a knowing smile and the guarantee that she would understand eventually.

It was enough to sour her mood – on the day someone gave her a lion.

They returned her to bed once they had taken her to the close stool, redressed her, and changed the sheets; looking to the window she could tell it was nearly time for dinner, but before she could ask Lady Essex about her meal Katherine returned to the room with what looked like a letter in her hand. "Your Highness," she said as she dropped a deep curtsy, "I must sincerely apologize…"

"No, Katherine," she interrupted, "please rise. Don't blame yourself or Mary in the least; it's my body that's playing cruel tricks on me. I would've stayed in Italy and joined a convent if anyone had told me of this beforehand."

Her face was wistful. "Is it really that difficult?"

"Perhaps…perhaps I have it easy; far easier than some women." And on a whim she caught Katherine's hand, lifting her gaze to meet hers.

Before she could say another word she found herself enfolded in a bear hug so tight that she could easily pick up the Spanish words Katherine was breathing into her ear. "Who told you?"

"Juan's face," was all she could think to whisper back. "Not a word, I promise."

"God and the angels bless you." She clung to Eleanor, only releasing her when noises from the far side of the room foretold the arrival of her dinner. "Before I go, I must give you this."

She took the letter, politely ignoring the wet streaks running down Katherine's cheeks. Spanish princesses, after all, do not cry. "Is it from Henry?"

"It's your second gift. I have been given to understand it's even better than a lion."

Eleanor arched an eyebrow up at her. "Now that would be impossible. Why did he give me a lion anyway, do you know?"

Katherine smiled – and not her usual tight, closed-mouth smile either, but a wide, beaming grin. "His father once gave his mother a lion," she said, "although if it was during one of her pregnancies I don't know. I suppose he considers it a good luck charm."

Which made about as much sense as such a gesture could make. _A lion!_

She spent most of that afternoon and evening in prayer; it was only just before the candles were to be doused that she remembered the paper Katherine had given her. "Lady Shrewsbury," she called, "there was a sealed letter in my bed this morning. Do you know where it is?"

But her lady already had the paper in her hand. "Here it is, Highness – although it looks more like a legal document than a letter, I must say."

Intrigued, she broke the seal and pried open the thick parchment. It was indeed an official document; letters patent, if she wasn't far wrong. "I think it sets out forms of address for members of the court." She looked up. "I still don't read English that well. Do you, Anne?"

"Not well enough for a legal document," she admitted, "but Lady Wiltshire is a great reader; she has to be, given she holds two baronies in her own right."

Eleanor didn't bother to question that strange logic. "Would you call her over, please?"

Cecily Bonville had apparently been a great beauty in her youth, so great that she'd turned even the head of Henry's grandfather King Edward despite being married to his stepson. But now she was on her second husband and creaking old (over fifty!); fortunately for Eleanor her eyes and mind were both as sharp as ever. "Let me see," she murmured, taking the parchment and holding it up to the light. "You're absolutely right that it's letters patent – or at least a copy, Highness. Shall I read the document aloud?"

"Please."

She cleared her throat. "Henry the Eighth, by the Grace of God King of England and France, Lord of Ireland, to the right trusty blah blah blah, no one cares…"

Eleanor clapped a hand over her mouth. Lady Wiltshire might be old but she was a treasure all the same.

"…and whereas of late we, who have perceived a strange and entirely improper variance in the addresses made to princes and nobles of our realm which must surely lead to churlish disrespect if not hindered, do call upon Your Graces, your lordships, and our councillors to note well the following. That an anointed King hath majesty and shall be addressed in such form at all times. That an anointed Queen likewise, whether regnant, consort, or dowager, also hath majesty and shall also be addressed in such form at all times—"

She frowned; did that mean what she thought it meant?

"—yea even unto death. That the lawful children of a King or of a Queen Regnant or of any prior King or Queen Regnant of England hath not majesty but still high birth and shall be addressed in perpetuity as Highness—"

Henry's aunt Lady Devon, who was sitting near the fire with her sewing, looked up with a quickly stifled gasp.

"—as shall the lawful wives of lawful sons of Kings and Queens Regnant, yea even unto death or until such time that such child become King or Queen and hath majesty. That the husband of a Queen Regnant…" She stopped, her gaze shifting to Eleanor. "I wonder if Your Highness – Your Majesty, should I say – wishes me to continue."

"I…" She scooted down into the bed and pulled the thick fur coverlet over her, inexplicably feeling as tiny as a mote of dust at the moment. "I am to be 'Her Majesty' from now on?"

"Just like the French Queen and the Holy Roman Empress, madam," she confirmed. "And the Countesses of Devon and Surrey will be known as Highnesses, as they once were in their father King Edward's life. Isn't that right, Catherine?"

Lady Devon dramatically wiped away tears no one had seen fall. "His Majesty humbles me."

Out of the corner of her eye Eleanor saw Lady Shrewsbury roll her eyes.

"There is, however, an additional matter of interest here," Lady Wiltshire continued. "His Majesty contemplates the possibility of a Queen Regnant, which I believe confirms that a daughter may succeed in lieu of sons."

"Foolish, sinful idea," Lady Derby interjected. "A woman's place is in the home or the convent."

"Better a woman rule than my son – any of our sons – die in another Cousin's War," Lady Devon countered.

Lady Derby was about to respond again when Eleanor interrupted them, raising a hand. "Is there anything in the document that directly spells out the succession, Lady Wiltshire?"

She slowly shook her head as she reached the bottom of the page. "I'm not seeing anything, but I believe the succession must be addressed either in His Majesty's will or by Parliament, Your High – Your Majesty: forgive me. We'll all have to get used to that."

None so much as herself, Eleanor thought.

She was drowsing in bed on St. Genevieve's Day when she overheard her ladies talking at the far end of the room, their voices so low she could only pick out a few phrases here and there.

"…shouldn't have guests . . . proper confinement."

"…when I was a girl, we didn't have this fancy . . . didn't take to our rooms before the first pain…"

A pause.

"…only a child . . . a boy himself."

"…right noble girl . . . not like Lady Abergavenny, already with child like a common whore . . . filthy brutes with their stinking paws…"

The last voice, she thought as she pushed herself up and rang for wine, must have been Lady Essex's.

The acerbic countess's wishes would soon come true. The moment Christmastide was over she was to be all but entombed; no visitors, no 'filthy brutes', no letters, no news until her child was born. She wouldn't be allowed to read anything but her Book of Hours – she'd already had Erasmus's book sent to her closet so it wouldn't go astray – and would be expected to spend at least six hours a day in prayer. She didn't mind the last part, but it rankled that she would not have the least word of the outside world for days, perhaps even weeks.

She couldn't say, though, that she missed the day-to-day business of the court. She took no joy in great feasts and pageants; her idea of a day well spent involved letters, books, and conversation with close friends and family. In that she had discovered that she and Henry were very well matched. Soon after their wedding he confessed to her that his reticence with respect to marriage stemmed not just from the obvious but also from the fear that he would marry a social magnet who would expect him to join in nightly revels. "Dances and balls," he'd muttered. "Music, loud noises, and everyone talking and singing…I couldn't have survived it. I knew you would make an excellent consort when I suggested we hold a ball in your honour and you winced."

The memory made her smile. She loved dancing in and of itself, but with hundreds of people watching? Not if she had any say in the matter.

She was allowed out of bed in time for Twelfth Night and a last visit from Katherine, Mary, Lady Elizabeth Boleyn, and Lady Seymour, who had unexpectedly brought her daughter with her. Little Jane, three years old that very day, was quite possibly the most beautiful child Eleanor had ever seen, with pale skin, long, wavy hair so blonde it was almost white, and enormous blue eyes set over plump cheeks and a little dimpled chin. "Many a queen would give all her gold for a face as fair as hers," she told the girl's beaming mother, who was dandling the child on her knee. "You certainly won't need a dowry to attract a good husband."

"Fortunately we should be able to dower her handsomely when the time comes, Your Majesty," she said. "I do however pity a girl with four older brothers; she'll be spoiled beyond redemption if Sir John and I don't keep a strict hand over her."

Lady Elizabeth chuckled. "Take it from me, Margery; it's better when the boys are older and they can protect their sisters and themselves. My George is the youngest of the three God has allowed us to keep, and my girls never stop teasing and tormenting him. Why, I remember back when he was two…"

Out of the corner of her eye Eleanor saw Mary and Lady Seymour share a look. It was true that Lady Elizabeth could be voluble – in the same way that Etna could on occasion be hot – but she was such a genuinely kind woman that no one wished to hurt her by interrupting. Thinking fast, Eleanor waited for her to pause for breath, then just as she was about to resume she let her empty goblet slip out of her hand and bounce on the carpets below. "Oh dear!" she cried. "Lady Elizabeth, would you—"

But before she could say another word little Jane slipped out of her mother's grasp, plopped the jewelled goblet onto her head, and began to dance around, giggling all the while.

"Are you a queen, Janey?" Eleanor asked her. "Is that your crown, and should we all curtsy to you?"

"Jane! You put that down right now!" Her flustered mother scooped her up and handed the precious cup to one of Eleanor's ladies. "Forgive her, Majesty, I beg you," she cried as Jane began to pout. "She's just so young…"

But she shook her head. "Lady Seymour, there's absolutely nothing to forgive. Your daughter is a jewel beyond price and I can only thank you for bringing her to brighten my day. And who knows: perhaps one day she will have fine jewels or even a coronet of her own to wear."

"She's so beautiful even a duke would offer for her," Mary said.

Just then Jane began to cry, and her mother looked well on her way to joining her. "If you'll excuse me, Your Majesty."

Mary rose to her feet. "Perhaps we should all leave the Queen so she can rest."

"Oh, yes," Lady Elizabeth cried. "Your Majesty needs every minute of sleep you can get."

Katherine rose to her feet but stayed with Eleanor. "I would speak with you this afternoon, Lady Seymour, if you have a free moment. His Majesty has asked me first to meet with the Queen on a matter of some delicacy."

"Of course, Your Highness. Best wishes, Your Majesty, for a quick and safe delivery."

"I'll pray for you constantly, Your Majesty," Mary added, while Lady Elizabeth – miracle of miracles – nodded silently in agreement.

Once they had departed Eleanor gave Katherine a wary look. "Is it the King of France?"

She shook her head. "It's not bad news. However, I am to speak with Your Majesty alone."

"Very well," she said, her heart dropping into her stomach: what could it be? "Ladies," she said, raising her voice, "I must ask you to leave us for just a moment – by His Majesty's order, I'm afraid."

They didn't much like it but of course they had no choice but to obey; once they had retired to the midwives' chamber Katherine turned back to Eleanor. "You must be terribly worried, but I give you my word: I have no news, good or bad, from any quarter."

She took a deep breath. "Then what is it?"

"Henry…he wishes to know which name you would choose for your child."

"But can't I just tell him…oh." She decided to face the ghost in the room head-on. "If I do not live and it be a girl, I wish her to be named after me. For a boy…tell him that any name he desires is acceptable. I suspect he will choose either Edward or Richard to honour his uncles, but for myself…"

"You'd prefer Francis?"

"After my father?" She shook her head. "I'd rather see him named for Henry himself, but the man is so stubborn he'll never change his mind."

"A Tudor family trait." Her eyes suddenly teared up and she lowered her voice as a worried Eleanor took her hand again. "Thank you for understanding about Juan."

"Thank you for being my friend, Kath – Catalina."

They embraced. "The next time we meet you will be the mother of a fine, strong prince or princess," Katherine said, dropping a curtsy. "God bless you and keep you safe, Your Majesty."

"And you."

The next ten days passed with such tedious regularity that she hardly noticed the change between day and night. Her life had been reduced to little more than sleep, prayer, peeks out the window at the moon, and as much food as she could eat. "I don't know where I put it all," she said to Lady Shrewsbury one day after her third helping of venison. "I feel smaller than I did last month."

"That's because you've dropped, Your Majesty. Haven't you noticed? Your Majesty's belly is lower."

She stared at the dark-haired countess. " _That_ was what they meant?"

"They make it seem a kind of secret knowledge, don't they?" she replied, patting Eleanor's hand. "In truth it only means the babe has moved down and is waiting for God's sign to come into the world."

 _Might that sign come soon,_ she prayed.

She was at her prie-dieu before dawn on the morning of the 16th, a golden amulet bearing the device of St. Margaret pressed tightly against her belly as she implored the saint to pray for her, when her skirts suddenly felt wet for the first time in two weeks. "Lady Devon," she said, rising to her feet, "please summon the maids; I seem to have lost control again…"

But Henry's aunt merely smiled. "Your Majesty's clothes are soaked; I believe the babe is about to be born."

 _Thank God!_ was all she had time to think before her ladies had her undressed and on the hard pallet in nothing but her shift, sheltered from drafts by a mountain of furs. "It may be some time before the pains begin, but they will begin today," Margherita told her after she'd examined her. "There's already some progress."

But hours went by; endless hours with the fire blazing and the windows rattling as a storm blew outside and the entire room – and the palace, the realm, and all of Christendom – held its collective breath. The first pains began at nine as cramps that spread downward from the top of her belly; by noon she felt as if her insides were being twisted into knots and dragged out of her. The pain was everything, it was her world, it was all that ever was and could ever be…she would never survive this…

 _…Elizabeth…Margaret…Beatrice…Maria…Anne…help me…_

Another avalanche of agony tore through her. She could hear as from a distance her own screeching voice cursing Henry in words that would curl the ears of the sailors in the Mincio. Then just for a second, a tiny fraction of her life of pain, the horror cleared and she felt something hard being pressed against her palm. She opened her eyes.

"Queen Elizabeth's," Katherine whispered, her face less than a foot from hers as she closed Eleanor's fingers around a simple gold cross on a chain. "I am certain she is here with you."

She had no voice left; she simply nodded and kissed the warm metal. _I beseech you, Lord Jesus: protect my babe!_

A minute, an hour, an eternity later, and the midwives were rearranging her – in some way, she didn't know how. There was nothing in her life now but pain and sudden intense pressure and the feel of the cross in her hand and the stench of piss and shit and puke and Margherita's voice loud in her ear screaming at her to push, telling her the child was almost born…

She screamed as a sharp burning pain suddenly ripped through her. "Keep pushing! Come on!" the voice yelled. "You can do it! Don't give up!"

She pushed, she pushed…and in an instant everything – the pain, the pressure, everything – just stopped.

A gasp, a breath – and a cry: a loud, strong cry.

She opened her eyes and looked up into her midwife's face, almost afraid to ask. "Am I – is it—"

But Margherita was wreathed in smiles. "Your Majesty is the mother of a healthy prince."

"A strong son," Joan's voice came from somewhere below her. "Lady Wiltshire: run and tell the King!"

"I have to—" Eleanor wanted to reach out, craved her child, her boy, her son, her baby, but before she could say another word she found herself convulsed by great heaving sobs. "I did it," she wailed into Margherita's shoulder as her strong arms surrounded her, "I won, I won, I won…"

"There, there, Majesty," she crooned into her ear. "Don't you want to—"

"I'm not dead, I'm not dead…"

The arms tightened around her. "Of course not, Majesty; of course you're not."

She finally calmed down enough to let Margherita go; almost immediately Joan placed a tiny bundle in her arms. "Your son, Majesty."

 _My son._

Their eyes met.

He was perfect. Red, bumpy, damp, squirming: perfect.

"He has Henry's chin," she murmured as the boy nuzzled against her chest.

"And his hair, I'll warrant from his brows," Joan said, "although he has Your Majesty's eyes. Congratulations; he's a fine boy."

She could have held him forever but Lady Derby took him away just as a heavy wetness spread between her legs. Her heart began to race – but then Joan noticed her anxiety and took pity on her. "Everything's as we expect, Majesty. It's just the afterbirth; nothing to worry about."

 _Why didn't they tell me earlier?_ For a moment she had thought—

Before she knew it they had removed – whatever it had been – and her ladies had washed and redressed her in a fresh shift and combed her hair and carried her from the pallet to the bed and tucked her in and taken all the dirty linens away; as soon as she was settled, Lady Derby returned with her son.

 _My son. I have a son._

She unwrapped him to take a closer look. Ten fingers, ten toes, two eyes, two ears, one nose, one mouth, one belly button, one – well, he was certainly a boy.

Lady Wiltshire's voice came low to her ear. "If he takes after the King, Your Majesty is a very lucky woman."

She could only laugh.

Just then her son – _her son_ – nuzzled her again; she untied the front of her shift and carefully, tentatively, brought him to her breast just as Margherita had shown her.

"He's already got a good latch," Joan said, directing her with a gentle hand. "Just hold him a little – yes, that's right."

It was extraordinary. This child – this little speck of her and Henry and God all mixed together at once – was drawing sustenance from her, was nursing – was alive. Truly alive.

She knew she wouldn't be able to nurse him for long. In fact, the English physicians had tried to dissuade her from nursing at all, claiming that early milk was too weak for a prince who deserved the best a wet nurse could provide from the very first day. But she had been adamant that great Italian ladies always nursed their own children for at least the first month and Henry had backed her up, pointing out that Italian babies were wont to thrive and four weeks of nursing would hardly affect her ability to quickly fall pregnant again. It was a rare victory over a system of court protocol that at times seemed impervious to reason – but at that moment she didn't have a care for any of that, for anything but her son.

A whisper of cool air prompted her to look up; Henry was standing at the foot of the bed, tears falling freely down his face. "You're well?"

She cleared her throat. "Your Majesty," she said, "might I present to you His Highness the Duke of Cornwall."

Henry gently took a seat beside her on the bed, watching in fascination as their son nursed. "He's strong and hungry. I suppose we know where he gets his appetite."

"And his chin," she added, smiling. "He's your very likeness."

He tried to speak, but he could only shake his head as his eyes filled with tears again. "Nora," he finally got out, "you've given me a greater gift than anyone ever has or could. Thank you."

Harsh words came unbidden to her mind as he gathered her in his arms and placed a chaste kiss on her forehead: _this is as good as it will ever be between us._

But she pushed that hurtful, hateful thought away as the child released her breast. "Done, are you?" she cooed. "Henry, would you like to—"

But he was already reaching for him, cradling him gently in his arms like the most practiced father in Europe. "Edward."

So she had been right. "It's a good name."

But he wasn't finished. "Edward, by the grace of God I dedicate you to England, St. George, and St. Edward the Confessor. May the Blessed Virgin protect you and shelter you for all the days of your life." He tilted his head and looked up at her. "And may your mother live to dandle your grandchildren on her knee."

"And may your father live to watch her," she added. "May you grow to be a great king, Edward, and an even greater man."

"Amen to that."

Henry soon left them to rest, and the midwives took Edward – _her Edward_ – and placed him gently in his cradle of state. Gone were her worries, her fears; ironic, she knew, for women were more likely to die after delivering than during. But she didn't care; only the child mattered now.

She had fulfilled her destiny, by the grace of God. She was the Queen of England; she was the mother of the future King.

She prayed it would be enough.

* * *

There were indeed an Earl and Countess of Wiltshire in this time period. The Earl, the younger son of the 2nd Duke of Buckingham and, incidentally, Jasper Tudor's stepson, was also related to the Woodvilles and the Wingfields, and received his title in real life in 1510 after a few months spent cooling his heels in the Tower for no apparent reason; in my timeline you may imagine he was ennobled by writ and spent no time in useless captivity. As he was childless the title became extinct at his death, which left it free to be granted to Thomas Boleyn some years later – again, in real life.

The dreariness of the English royal confinement was very real, and there is some evidence that Italian standards of care were different enough that some conflict among the medical profession would be expected. The writer Leon Battista Alberti was passing on contemporary wisdom when he suggested Italian women enjoy a moderate mixed diet and engage in light work and exercise throughout their pregnancies – and not under any circumstance lie around for weeks on end waiting idly for birth. I suspect Eleanor's Italian physicians and her midwife would have been horrified by the idea of her spending a month in a dark room in bed and clamoured to give her more freedom mainly for health reasons. And yes; even highborn Italian women did nurse their own babies – when they could. The rate of death in childbirth was as high in Italy as it was anywhere in late Renaissance Europe.

Henry VII did indeed once present his wife with a lion. No, I don't know why either.

Oh, and at least one little section was inspired by yet another mention – in a published novel, at that – of Jane Seymour's supposedly hideous "whey-faced" complexion. _ARGH_


	24. Hope

It's the last chapter! Yay!

My intention is to put this through a serious rewrite, taking into consideration every one of your criticisms (even – or I should say, especially – those I vocally disagreed with), and, I hope, publishing it on Amazon next year. To that end, I will likely be forced to take all but the first chapter of this down when the rewrite is complete. However, I will also be starting on a second book that will be first published here and on AO3; the first chapter is, I'm happy to say, already half-written.

Thanks to all of you for reading, following, and reviewing!

* * *

20 January 1511  
Palace of Placentia

Newborns, Catalina decided, looked entirely too much like frogs.

"What a beautiful boy you are," Lady Surrey crooned to her great-nephew as she gently rocked Prince Edward in her arms. "What a sweet little prince."

Lady Devon smiled at the boy over her older sister's shoulder. "He certainly resembles His Majesty, but to my mind he's got a touch of the old Duke of Bedford about him."

"Maybe in the chin, Kat, but his forehead and nose are all Woodville. In fact, he reminds me a bit of our Ned."

They shared a sad smile over their long-dead brother, the tragic little Edward V. "He'd be forty, Anne," Lady Devon said. "Did you realize that?"

The countess blinked away a sudden tear. "Forty and a grown man with children of his own. If only he and Richard had been given the chance."

Edward suddenly began to wriggle, his eyes moving behind his lids. _What do you dream of, little one?_ Catalina wondered as she watched them. _Are you remembering the womb, or is God showing you a vision of your great-uncle on his heavenly throne? Or perhaps your Uncle Arthur is whispering to you…_

Lady Shrewsbury returned to the anteroom, the order of service clutched in her hand. "Bishop Cockburn has arrived at last, Your Highness," she said to Catalina, keeping her voice low so as not to wake the prince. "He seems…worried."

"Terrified he'll drop the child on the way back, I warrant. The fear of every ambassador, whether bishop or duke – although one wouldn't expect every prelate to lack experience."

They shared a smile; common was the bishop with a fine crop of sons, and rare was the nobleman who didn't resent it.

A faint rat-a-tat alerted them just before the doors swung open; with a deep breath and a silent prayer Catalina followed Henry's aunts out into the wide corridor, where she took her place as godmother alongside the envoys of the Kings of Portugal and Scotland. "Your Excellencies," she said to them in Latin as they bowed to her, "I pray you are both well? Bishop Alvarez, I hope you bring news of my lady sister. I've missed her letters this past two months; I pray the new child isn't giving her problems."

"Her Majesty is indeed...very well, Your Highness," he all but stammered, refusing to meet her gaze, "and the child within her seems to thrive. I trust Your Highness finds herself happy in her, um, new situation?"

Her heart suddenly sank; she had to struggle to keep her countenance and tone even. "Very happy, thank you. It was immensely thoughtful of His Majesty to have arranged the matter so as to ensure my protection, but in truth I couldn't have asked for a kinder or more attentive husband."

Alvarez's face blanched. "Arranged? But His Majesty was told that—"

Bishop Cockburn stepped into the conversation, his blue eyes twinkling with amusement. "King Manuel must be relieved beyond words that his wife's sister is no longer vulnerable to fortune hunters and predators," he said to the young Portuguese bishop. "Have you had a chance to meet the young man, Pedro?"

By now Alvarez was visibly flustered. "Er…not as of yet, no, but I do hope someday to make his acquaintance if my master will permit…"

But Cockburn didn't let him finish. "And you should: Master Chapuys is an excellent man…but he's now Sir Eustache, isn't he, Your Highness?" he asked, turning to her.

She smiled, thankful for the opportunity to redirect the conversation. "As of this morning, yes. It's long been the custom in England for the king to invest knights before royal christenings. I understand that's the case in Scotland as well, Dr. Cockburn?"

"It very much is, Highness. In fact, my master King James told me just last month that he intends to invest twenty knights should God favour the child Queen Margaret is carrying…"

He rattled on, Catalina carefully watching Alvarez's face as they waited for the trumpet blast that would mark the beginning of the ceremony. She'd always known there was a possibility that her marriage would raise eyebrows among the crowned heads of Europe, but she'd hoped her sister would – well, if not understand, then at least accept her situation. But then again perhaps Maria did understand, and it had been Manuel who had forbidden her to write. She could only wonder what lies he'd been told…

But that wasn't fair, she thought, bringing herself up short: he could have heard the truth, after all.

She felt a faint tug on her dress and cast a glance behind her to where her newest attendant, Lady Seymour, was carefully arranging her train. "Won't be a moment now," she mouthed.

At long last the signal came, and the vast crowd of courtiers began to make their way down the wide curved staircase toward the Chapel Royal. First were the lords temporal in attendance that bitter winter's day, two by two, each carrying a taper of virgin beeswax, followed by the lords spiritual in their finest vestments. Then came the Dean of the Chapel, Dr. Atwater, with the choristers, then the untitled gentlemen of the court – including Eustache, so handsome in his new doublet and overgown – and the officers of the new prince's household, including his chamberlain, lady governess, midwives, rockers, and future wet nurse.

"The Princess Mary has grown into a lovely young woman," Cockburn murmured as she and Juan took their place in the procession behind Edward's household, Juan carrying the chrisom cloth in his pudgy hands. "Don't you think so, Pedro?"

"She carries herself with great dignity and honour – much like Your Highness, if I might say so," Alvarez said with a nod to Catalina.

She smiled; so he was willing to accept her at face value despite his master's misgivings. "Thank you, Excellency. His Majesty is immensely proud of Mary and has every intent of arranging a splendid marriage for her."

"As he should," Cockburn said. "She'd be the pearl of any realm in Christendom."

The Vikings suddenly raised the canopy of estate over Prince Edward and Lord and Lady Surrey as they began to make their way downstairs, Lady Devon carrying the Prince's train; Catalina and the envoys took their places behind her, with the members of the Queen's household and the ladies of the chamber bringing up the rear.

As they passed down the corridor between lines of brilliantly uniformed yeoman guards she could just begin to make out the voices of the choristers giving praise to God over the blasts of trumpets. It was a splendid introduction to the community of Christ for the infant, an even more splendid show of Henry's might and power to the ambassadors and envoys who had been invited to witness it from the top of the stairs. There was the Venetian envoy, old Signore Badoer, who was permitted the use of a chair due to his age and infirmities; the new Spanish ambassador, Don Íñigo de Mendoza, who gave her a friendly smile as he rose from his bow; the envoys from Mantua, Denmark, Burgundy, Poland, the Holy See, Milan, Savoy (again with a smile), Austria…but where was Bishop de Villiers?

For the French ambassador was nowhere to be seen.

There was no question of his having taken affront at his master's exclusion from that morning's ceremony; after all, it had been de Villiers himself who had counselled Henry against naming King Louis as godfather, pointing out that while the storms raged in the Channel none of them could know whether his master still lived, let alone was in sound enough mind to qualify as godparent. But the morning had dawned clear and much calmer, if icy cold; she had to wonder if a messenger had finally made his way through and whether his news was good or ill.

They took the first steps down the stairs behind the canopy, where below and to her left she could see Juan whispering something into Mary's ear and the girl smiling in response. "Such a remarkable resemblance," Bishop Alvarez said, his eyes on the pair as well. "His Majesty clearly takes after his lady mother, but those two…"

She shoved away the memory that was trying to force its way into her thoughts and turned to the ambassador with a forced smile. "There's no question who his father was, is there?" she said evenly. "Fortunately he possesses Doña Lina's mild temperament – and her chin, I'd say."

Bishop Cockburn peered down at him. "He does have a Spanish cast to his lower face, you're right; in fact, he resembles Your Highness somewhat. Is Doña Lina a relation?"

Her heart stopped in her throat. "Not officially, Excellency," she improvised, "but, well, my father…"

And nothing more needed to be said; both men grinned in full understanding, while she silently sent up prayers of apology to Lina's mother in Heaven for the insult to her chastity and to God for the lie. To her father in Spain she didn't bother: it was no insult to credit him with another bastard when he already had so many – ten? twenty? a hundred? – to his name.

They finally reached the bottom of the stairs where she checked behind her again, sharing a smile with Lady Seymour. Sunny in temperament – usually – and the best needlewoman in England bar none, Margery had been wary of joining Queen Eleanor's hectic household but had jumped at the chance to become a member of Catalina's quieter one; she in turn had been relieved to have someone to replace Maud Parr, whose long-expected first child had knocked her off her feet.

Another twenty minutes passed as they slowly followed the Prince in his great-aunt's arms down the stuffy, overheated hallway to the door of the Chapel Royal, where Archbishop Bainbridge met them. "Is this the child?" he asked Lady Surrey.

"It is, Your Grace," she replied.

"Male or female?"

"A boy, Your Grace."

"And has he been baptized?"

"No, Your Grace."

He pronounced the first prayers and they proceeded into the narthex, where the font was guarded by four proud knights replete in silk aprons and towels: William Compton, Richard Vere, Robert Radclyffe, and – and Eustache.

That she hadn't expected.

If there could be a stronger sign of Henry's approval of her marriage, she didn't know it.

The Sarum rite of baptism was as long and involved as it was ancient; Catalina thanked God she was wearing a heavy gown and could stretch her toes and ankles without anyone noticing. On and on went the prayers, the questions and responses from her and the ambassadors, more prayers, the invocations of every saint they could think of, more prayers, the ritual undressing, and even more prayers. At last the Archbishop scooped up a handful of holy water from the font and poured it over Edward's head, the boy helpfully responding with a loud cry that reassured everyone in attendance that the Devil had been driven out of him and he was now a child of God. Suffer the little children, she thought; bring them to God and they will be assured of Heaven.

The chrisom cloth was placed on Edward's head and he was redressed in his robes while Dean Atwater read the final prayers, announcing the Prince's name to all and sundry; at last it was time for them to return to the Queen's rooms, Dr. Cockburn uncomfortably cradling the unswaddled child in his arms. "Are you sure Your Highness wouldn't prefer to carry the prince…" he whispered to her as they stepped back out in the hallway.

"His Majesty wished you to have the honour, Excellency," she whispered back politely, Alvarez snickering faintly beside her. "I wouldn't dream of interfering."

The procession back to the second floor went by in a trice, but it wasn't until Henry scooped Edward out of Dr. Cockburn's arms that the bishop – and Henry, for that matter – were able to relax. Rarely had she known a man as genuinely happy simply to be a father as her brother-in-law. He'd been so certain that his peculiarity would affect his ability to sire a living child that he hadn't allowed himself the faintest hope of a son; he'd spent most of the month before the birth on his knees in the Chapel, praying not for a boy but for a healthy child.

As one of the nurses took Edward back to be reswaddled Catalina was waved over to the great state bed by Queen Eleanor, who accepted her curtsy with a smile. "Did everything go well?" she asked Catalina in Spanish. "Was the Devil sent out of him?"

"Most assuredly, Your Majesty; Prince Edward's cry resounded to the roof. The entire service was completed with the utmost sanctity."

Eleanor held out a hand, drawing her in closer. "I know it couldn't have been easy for you," she said in a voice barely above a whisper, "but I thank you again for agreeing to sponsor Edward. Had things been different…"

But she shook her head. "Do not think that God looks down on the world with indifference, Majesty," she replied. "He knows what is for the best. I rejoice in your recovery and the continuing health of the Prince, and pray that with God's grace he will be followed by many more strong sons."

She retreated as the Duke and Duchess of Norfolk approached Eleanor to offer their congratulations, catching Eustache's eye in the crowd thronging the room. Had things been different, they would never…but no: had things truly been different she would be a completely different woman. Perhaps the living Hell Henry VII had put her through had been for the best; had she been respected in her widowhood and treated as her rank demanded she might have made an excellent Queen when the time came, but she never would have been a happy wife.

It took her the better part of half an hour to make her way across the room to where Eustache was listening with interest to Ned Howard describe the _Joseph Lion d'Or's_ trials in the Solent the week before. She noted with interest that both men were carefully watching Dr. Cockburn as they spoke in low tones about the future of the new carrack and her sister ship, the _Mary Rose en Soleil._ "I assume one is to Newcastle, then," Eustache was saying, reaching between them to give Catalina's hand a surreptitious squeeze.

"And the other to Man, if Lord Derby permits," Howard confirmed before raising his voice and addressing her. "Your Highness, I see you took my advice from last summer. Damned sensible of you, if I do say so myself."

She lifted her wine glass to silently toast him. "How could I not 'snap up' love, my lord, when God was good enough to give it to me?"

They shared a smile as Lord Derby joined them. "I heard my name being whispered, Ned: not in vain, I hope? Your Highness, Sir Eustache."

Just then she felt a strange twinge in her upper left thigh. _Too long on my feet,_ she thought, shifting her weight onto her other foot and returning her attention to the conversation.

"Has anyone seen Lord More today?" Derby was asking. "I'd expected him of all people to be here, but—"

"Well, his wife's about to pop, ain't she?" Howard replied. "Her and the stepmother. Wouldn't have thought the old man had it in him – or in her, better put…" His face suddenly fell and he turned beet red. "Beggin' Your Highness's pardon! I…"

She gave him her most beatific smile. "No apology needed, Ned. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

They bowed to her, Ned Howard still red with embarrassment. "His joke wasn't that crude, was it?" Eustache murmured as he led her away.

"Not at all; I'm suddenly exhausted. Do you think the King would notice if we left?"

He looked over at Henry, who at the moment was cradling his son in his arms and gently kissing the top of the boy's head. "My love, he wouldn't notice the King of Scots at the gate with an army."

They made their way out of the crowded room, descending to the first floor gallery that led to the north wing. Already the palace servants were busy stripping away the christening decorations; by the time most of Eleanor's visitors left the hall would be back to normal.

Another twinge, this one in the other thigh, almost made her cry out; perhaps she should have worn flatter shoes.

Eustache looked around them as they entered the north wing. "You're truly well, Catrine?" he asked her in French once they were alone. "After all, if anyone should be exhausted it's me. You nearly tired me out this morning – twice."

" _Mi tesoro_ ," she protested, "not in the corridor! Someone will hear!"

His voice dropped to a growl. "They undoubtedly would hear if we—"

They turned the corner only to discover a tall, red-bearded man in mud-spattered travelling clothes expostulating with one of the royal guards at the end of the hall; as they drew closer and she could see his face she felt her stomach leap. "That's Lady Elizabeth Boleyn's husband!" she whispered.

"Sir Thomas? But why…"

Their eyes met; there was only one reason for the ambassador to France to have returned without notice. "Sir Thomas!" she cried, ignoring the ache spreading to her back as they drew closer. "I would welcome you home, but I fear your arrival is a harbinger of bad news from France."

"I'm afraid you're correct, Your Highness," he said, rising from his bow. "Monsieur Chapuys, might I be permitted to congratulate you on your marriage? You are very fortunate to have wed one of the most beautiful and noble women in all of Christendom."

Eustache grinned. "I thank you, Sir Thomas, and I cannot but agree with you wholeheartedly – on both my most excellent fortune and my wife's incomparable beauty and grace."

"Although I must point out that you have inadvertently misaddressed my lord husband," Catalina said. "His Majesty was kind enough to raise Eustache to the Order of the Bath this morning."

"You've been knighted!" Boleyn held out a hand, beaming at Eustache. "Congratulations and well met."

"Well met indeed." They shook hands. "I assume you're searching for the King?"

"The Great Hall is deserted; I couldn't even find…" He suddenly frowned. "By any chance has the Queen been delivered, Highness? Sir Eustache?"

"She has," she replied, "and of a fine son named Edward. He was born three hours after sunset on the sixteenth."

"We've just come from the christening party," Eustache added. "I however assume you aren't here for the celebration. Might we ask: is King Louis dead?"

"Aye, he is," Boleyn said, his face grim. "In fact, he died on the sixteenth…about three hours after sunset."

They crossed themselves. What an odd coincidence, she thought; it was as if God had plans for Prince Edward – plans that involved France.

The ache in her thighs suddenly began to burn; she bit her lip, willing herself not to wince.

"I certainly don't want to expose the Prince to the mud of the road," Boleyn continued. "I'll send a note to His Majesty and return to my rooms to clean up."

"Perhaps we'll meet later," Eustache said, concern apparent in his eyes as he glanced at Catalina. "If you'll excuse us, Sir Thomas; my lady wife is unwell. We were just on our way back to our rooms."

"Of course," Boleyn said, bowing again. "I pray it's nothing serious."

"As do we; thank you."

Eustache put his arm around her waist, gently helping her up the stairs and to their rooms as the burning ache worsened. "You're very pale, _cherie_ ," he said once they were alone behind closed doors. "Shall I send Ethelred for Dr. de Victoria?"

A memory tickled the back of her mind; she knew she had felt this kind of pain before – but it couldn't be. "No, no," she said in sudden realization of what was happening. "Would you send Jane and Bet to me? Maria, too, if she's here."

"You're sure?"

She nodded, unable to hold back a broad smile. "I think my courses have come."

"Your…" His mouth dropped open. "After five years?"

"Almost six. They said…they said I would never…" And she began to weep.

She felt him kiss her forehead. "Hush, _cherie_. This is excellent news, I know, but let's not get our hopes up. The only thing that matters to me is your health. Let me get your ladies."

Before she knew it she'd been divested of her finery and tucked into bed in soft linens, a well-wrapped heating stone easing the burning ache in her thighs. Were it not for the pain, she thought, she'd be entirely too comfortable. "So much coddling," she said to Maria de Salinas, who was standing over her bed holding a goblet of hippocras. "It's hard to believe that just two years ago…"

But Maria suddenly began to cry. "I never thought we'd make it. I thought we'd all die."

She silently motioned to the housemaid who had been building the fire; Bet brought up a chair and eased Maria into it, plucking the goblet out of her hands before she could spill the hot spiced wine over her gown. "Hush, it's all right," Catalina murmured, soothing her shivering friend. "Bet, would you bring another goblet of wine, please, and a blanket."

The maid curtseyed and left; as soon as the door closed behind her, Catalina reached out and took one of Maria's hands in hers. "Whatever is the matter? Has Lord Mountjoy made an offer?"

She nodded, smiling through her tears. "I never dreamed I would have the chance to marry," she said. "I prayed every night at Durham House that the guards would stab us to death when the time came instead of…instead of…"

"I know," she said, giving her hand a squeeze. "I was afraid of what they'd do to us too. But they didn't get the chance, did they?"

Their eyes met. "There are times I dream we're still back there," Maria admitted. "I wake up, I can't breathe, and I need to light a candle and banish the nightmares back to the shadows. But we survived, Highness…"

"Catalina, Maria: for after what we endured, we are surely sisters."

"Catalina," she repeated, tears falling down her face again. "We survived everything that Welsh bastard could throw at us, didn't we?"

"That we did; God was surely watching over us."

How hungry man is for hope, she thought as Bet returned with a woollen shawl and blanket and wrapped Maria up tightly against the drafts; how even in the most desolate moments, with the best foreseeable outcome a quick, painful death, does the soul cry out to God. Even at her worst points – the discovery of her pregnancy, her incarceration, the deaths of her duenna and her ladies, her delivery on the cold attic floor – Catalina had clutched at the hope that one day the bastard would die and she would escape. Hunger, humiliation, and fear had fought to destroy her but she had survived – no, thrived. Henry had been surpassingly kind, of course, kinder than most men would be in his position, but he hadn't brought her Maria, or Juan, or above all Eustache. Only by the grace of God had she survived; only by the grace of God had everything she held dear come to her.

She lowered her head and gave Him thanks, Maria's hand still in hers.


End file.
